A Little Help From My Friends
by Lisa Paris
Summary: Don was dangling fifty feet above the concrete. Another second, and he knew he was going to fall.
1. Chapter 1

A Little Help From My Friends

Disclaimer I _still_ don't own them.

Category Adult themes and inferences.

Synopsis First in a Beatle's song title arc. During the course and aftermath of a particularly, bad day, Don realises there are a lot of people he can count on.

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_**Part One**_

Don knew he was in trouble the minute he stepped out on the gantry. The rusty metal shifted beneath his feet and gave an ominous groan. He was already a third across it, forty feet up in the air, propelled forward by speed and momentum as he chased full pelt after Coulton. The walkway swayed for a moment as Don came to an abrupt full-stop. Coulton had already reached the other side and was about to head down the iron stairs.

_Too late to turn back._ He could only go forward. The gantry moaned beneath him. Don picked up his speed again and sprinted as fast as he could. A pigeon narrowly missed his face, startled by the abnormal activity. It flew up through a hole in the corrugated roof and out into the blue sky above. Coulton turned at the top of the stairs and popped off a couple of shots at him. Don stopped and crouched as low as he dared, and luckily, the bullets went wide.

"Freeze!" Don straightened up, and stepped forward. He had Coulton's back in his sights. He steadied his gun by using both hands. It was clear Coulton didn't plan to play nice.

The rending iron gave a final groan and the world went to hell in a hand basket. The walkway disappeared out from under him as Don slid down into the abyss. His grip on the gun was first thing to go as he scrabbled to hang onto the railings. It bounced off the edge of the conveyer belt, spiralling down into the factory below.

The Glock wasn't all that was bouncing. Don's skull smacked the side of the gantry. For a moment, he almost lost his grip as he joined Larry out amongst the stars. A jabbing pain shot through his hand. A fingernail, torn down to the quick. It did him one hell of a favour and cut through the fog in his head. Don clung onto the jagged metal for dear life and waited as the dizziness abated. The gantry swung ten degrees to the right and he got a good view of the ground.

'_Holy mother of - '_ Don looked down and wished he hadn't.

He was dangling fifty feet up in the air with solid concrete below him. There was nothing but the gantry to cling on to. Nothing underneath to break his fall. Just thinking about it gave him vertigo. He was feeling light-headed again. If he lost his grip or the metal gave way, he didn't much fancy his chances. There was nothing very pretty about a fall from a height, especially, not onto a hard surface. The high velocity impact of flesh and bone left a nasty mess to clean up. Don hooked his fingers through the holes in the mesh and prayed that it wasn't too rusted. The metal was friable and cut into his flesh.

_He tried to recall the date of his last tetanus._

"Don, can you hear me?" It was Megan's voice. Urgent and slightly concerned. "Agent Eppes, report on your position. Do you have the suspect in sight?"

_The suspect._

_Crap,_ he'd forgotten about Coulton. It was excusable, under the circumstances. Don raised his head and looked up at the gantry. Coulton hadn't forgotten about him.

"My my, Special Agent Eppes. You seem to be in a bit of a predicament." Coulton stood, pointing a gun at him. His face was twisted into a grin.

"I'm inside the building." Don decided to ignore him and spoke to Megan instead. It seemed the more sensible option. "I'm in trouble." It was a slight understatement. "The gantry I was on collapsed. Coulton has a gun on me. I repeat – he has a gun on me. Copy?"

"Shut-up!" Coulton knelt down carefully and aimed _'said'_ gun in Don's face. "Ain't no need to tell them where you are – they'll find what's left of you soon enough. _When they're scraping you up off the floor_."

"They'll find you too, Coulton." Don toughed it out. Coulton was an arrogant, red-necked bully. "We have the whole place surrounded. Do yourself a big favour and haul me up. You're not walking out of here a free man."

"I copy." Megan said, in his ear. "Hang on, in there, Boss-man. Help is on the way."

"Very funny," Don grunted back at her. Did she really say _'hang on, in there?'_ Talk about gallows humour. She big-time owed him a beer. He wiggled his fingers and tried to anchor his grip, but Coulton was watching like a hawk.

"If it wasn't for you, I'd be long gone." Coulton moved his foot forward. He lifted it slowly, with cruel deliberation, and placed it on top of Don's hand. "It was you, always after me, always nosin' around. _You_ soured things up for me again, _Special Agent Eppes. _I shoulda known after the first time. You and your buddy, Cooper, you fixed me before. When I lit outta Ohio State."

"Yeah, well, know what? I fixed you again." Don tightened his hold in anticipation. Either he'd hit his head pretty hard, or there were three Coulton's up on the walkway. He tried very hard to focus his eyes. To combat the menacing dizziness. _So much for worrying about tetanus._ Don had a feeling it was the last of his concerns. "Trust me, you knock me off this gantry, you'd better hope you have really good veins."

Coulton pressed down a little with the toe of his boot. "Know what, _Special Agent Eppes?_ By the time they get around to catchin' me, let alone sentencin' me to lethal injection, you're gonna be nuthin' more than a nasty stain on that concrete down below. You a kike? You look like a kike. Better start sayin' your prayers."

The pain in his hand was intense now. Don's fingers were being slowly crushed. He closed his eyes and increased his grip. _Dear God, it was so hard to hold on._

"Coulton, don't be an idiot." _May as well hope for a miracle._ "You won't even get as far as the door. You kill me and you're finished. My people are all over this place."

"Now, that don't sound like no prayer to me. Not unless you Jew-boys do things different." Coulton shifted his stance a little and ground down with his heel instead.

Don gave a yell of agony as a couple of knuckles popped. If he hadn't hooked his fingers through the holes in the mesh, he would have been forced to let go. He couldn't last for much longer. His biceps were trembling with strain. The thump in his skull was beating a tattoo. He was having a really bad day.

_Uh-oh._ He looked up into Coulton's face and knew it was going to get worse. The man's body language had altered. He was tense and on sudden alert. Don thanked the Lord for small mercies as the pressure lessened on his throbbing hand. His relief was short-lived, however, as Coulton pointed the gun at his head.

"Reeves," Don knew his time was slipping away. Rather like his grip on the walkway. A red-brown fog hazed his vision. _Perhaps he had rust in his eyes?_ "Tell me you have a visual?"

"Confirmed," she answered, softly. "Just a few more seconds. Hold on."

"Time's up, Agent Eppes." Coulton's voice was sardonic. "Guess I shoulda known from the beginning. It was always gonna end, just you and me."

"Coulton," Don's fingers were uncurling. They felt stiff and sticky with blood. "Come on, man, use some intelligence. This is your last chance to do something decent or my people will fry your ass."

For a moment, Don thought he had him. Coulton appeared to waver. Something flashed like lightening over the other man's expression. There was quite a bit of history between them. A bond which was almost symbiotic. _The unique and terrible relationship which exists between a hunter and his prey._ It was the second time Don had hunted Coulton down. The first time had been with _Fugitive Recovery._ Now, it seemed fate had turned the tables. This time, it was Don at his mercy.

"Step back and toss the gun down." It was Sinclair from the top of the staircase. Don could hear him, but he couldn't see him. He could just about pinpoint his voice. "Put your hands up where I can see them."

"Better do as he says," Don pressed home the advantage. If they didn't haul his ass up quick, in a few seconds, it would all be relative. His hands were losing their grip on the mesh. The concrete shimmied below him. There was movement and then he saw Megan. She was standing with several other members of his squad, their faces turned up and concerned.

'_They have every right to be,'_ he thought, crazily. _'Wouldn't want to be in their shoes if I fall off this thing. Wouldn't want to clean up the mess.'_

"Put the gun down, Coulton. Step well back from Agent Eppes." David sounded more urgent now.

The gantry gave a threatening groan. _'Not good. This was so not good.' _The structure shuddered and the whole thing jerked, as it tilted down another few feet. Don felt a surge of panic as his left hand was shaken free. He groped for some kind of purchase, and just managed to grasp the edge of the girder. The walkway was swaying like a leaf in the wind. _No time._ They had run out of time.

"There ain't no alternative. Not for you – not for me." Coulton was talking to him again. He flipped the gun around in his hand and started to raise it like a club.

Everything happened too fast after that. Don barely registered the blow. He was too busy hanging on for dear life as the gantry jolted again. His hands were being sliced to ribbons. Torn and shredded on the jagged steel mesh. A bullet ricocheted off the girder beside him, showering sparks a shade too near his cheekbone. _Other shots, fired in quick succession_ - must be from David's gun. The walkway creaked around to the right and Don slipped down another foot or so.

Something struck him hard across the shoulders. A heavy, glancing blow. It shook his left hand free again and swung his body around. _Coulton._ It was Coulton. Don's gut lurched as he plummeted past. The idiot had refused to put the gun down, and Sinclair had been forced to take him out. A couple of seconds later, Don heard a sickening crunch.

He closed his eyes and refused to look down. In a second or two, he'd be joining him. Don was lost in a welter of desperation and pain. He knew he was going to fall. His fingers were deadened and useless. Like salami, swollen and numb. And worse, even worse, was the pounding in his head. A _death metal_ rhythm section.

"Don!" Megan pulled him back sharply to the land of the living. "Hold on, don't you dare let go!"

For some reason, it struck him as funny. Or, maybe, he was already hysterical. He'd just dropped through the chute at the end of _Cloud City_ and Megan was mad with him. His hand slipped a little further. There was a loud roaring in his ears. "Better bring around the _Millennium Falcon._ I think I'm losing my grip . . ."

"Oh, no you don't, Luke Skywalker." A strong hand caught hold of his wrist.

**TBC**

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	2. Chapter 2

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Two**_

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It was a slow climb down from the gantry, even with Colby's help. Don was more than happy to lean on him as he limped down the flight of iron stairs. He added something else to his list of woes. Since when had he crocked his knee? He must have hit it at some stage on the walkway. Probably, when he first went down.

Megan met him at the bottom. She didn't look mad any more. In-fact, she looked rather horrified as she took in his battered condition. Don straightened up and forced a wry smile. He ignored the fact there was two of her. One Megan could be pretty daunting. It was all he could deal with right now.

"_Hang on, in there?"_ He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "That was a real kicker. Can't tell you how much I appreciated that one. It wasn't exactly original, Reeves. Laugh? I almost died."

"Hey, at least I didn't ask you to raise your hands and identify yourself," she retorted, with a small grin. He saw a flicker of relief in all four of her eyes as she gave him a quick appraisal. Then she touched the edge of his rolled up sleeve as if reassuring herself he was real.

"Coulton?"

He watched the medic's over her shoulder. They were clustered around Coulton's body. There was nothing urgent about their demeanour. _Yup, he knew what that meant. _The outcome had been a no-brainer. He didn't require any medical training to call it. Two rounds in the chest and a swan dive from the gantry. Not exactly one to walk away from.

'_There, but for the grace of God.'_ Don quickly averted his stare.

"Think _post-modernist_ painting." There was a trace of anger in Megan's tone. _And was that just a hint of satisfaction?_ The two-way had been switched on the whole time he was up there. She would have heard everything Coulton said.

"You called the Coroner?"

"As soon as he fell. I'm guessing one of the bullets killed him. He was probably dead before he hit the ground. I suppose you could say, he got lucky."

_Lucky._ That was one way of looking at it. It seemed to be going around. At least, Coulton had been spared the anticipation, and so in a way, it was true. _The anticipation_ – Don closed his eyes. He would never forget the feeling. A split second of terrible certitude when he'd known he was going to fall. Don took a step forward and stumbled, putting a hand out to steady himself. For a moment, he'd forgotten his injuries. The contact made him cry out in pain.

"Whoa, there." Colby caught him again. The ex-army man was making a habit of it. Don had never been so glad to see him, as when he'd hauled him back onto the gantry. "I'll go tell the medic's they got a live one."

"Colby," Don needed to say it. "Thanks for what you did up there."

"Hey, Boss, think nothing of it," Colby shot him a slightly worried grin. "Put it down to all that time in the gym. Knew those bicep curls would be good for something. Just remember me next time there's paperwork."

"Yeah, right." Don watched him walk away.

A simple thanks seemed somehow, inadequate. For a split second up there, it had been pretty close. He had, literally, been hanging in thin air. If Colby hadn't grabbed his wrist at that moment, Don would have fallen, end of story. He had lost his grip on the girder and the rusted mesh had crumbled away. Talk about hanging by a hairsbreadth. _Talk about cutting things fine. _

Megan looped her arm through Don's and sat down beside him on the bottom step. He was immeasurably relieved to take the weight off his feet. For some reason, he found he was trembling. It wasn't just the physical shock. In his head, he was still close to falling. On his way to inevitable, painful death and being swallowed whole by the abyss. And if life hadn't exactly flashed before his eyes, it had definitely run a brief trailer of regrets. There were things, like his life insurance policies. He could always make sure they were up to date. Meticulous, as ever, he had his official life in order. It was just the personal stuff which wasn't straight.

"Don?" Megan rubbed his shoulder, gently. "You still with me?"

"Just about." He was forced to answer her honestly for once. He couldn't bring himself to say _'fine.'_ A spot of blood dripped onto the floor. He supposed his head must be bleeding. He tried to raise a hand to brush it away but his fingers were hurting and useless. In the end, he dangled them between his knees and tried to ignore the way they throbbed.

"Here," Megan wiped away some of the blood from his face with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. "I promise it's clean. There - " She examined him doubtfully. "I guess that's a little better. Once we know where the medic's will be taking you, I'll give your dad and Charlie a call."

"Thanks."

_Oh, joy, another trip to the ER._ Don felt his heart sink a little lower. It was on the tip of his tongue to argue the point, but he knew he was in need of some attention. _Dad and Charlie._ It just kept getting better. _Seriously, could his day get any worse? _He could already imagine their reaction when Megan told them he'd been hurt. The picture it painted wasn't pretty. In-fact, it was downright ugly. For a moment, he was tempted to order her to leave it, but a hint of common-sense still prevailed.

There'd been several, awkward incidents, in the not-too-distant past, when he and Charlie had come close to falling out. Especially after a certain, thorny affair, when he'd accidentally left a knee-brace behind in the bathroom. That one had been a tad embarrassing. Don made a face as he remembered. He'd been in hot pursuit of a suspect, when he'd slipped on someone's discarded lunch, and fallen hard on his ass. He'd made light of it when Charlie busted him, but his family failed to see the joke. In the end, Don realised he owed them the truth. They had arrived at a mutual compromise. Charlie was not going to slide into a funk or obsess about worse-case scenarios. And Don himself – well, he'd promised faithfully. He would always let his family know if he got hurt.

He heaved a sigh and re-focused on Megan. "Don't go getting them all riled up. It's nothing, just a few broken fingers. Tell them there's no need to worry."

"Yeah, right." She shook her head at him – at least he thought she did.

"Don," she gave him a perceptive look. "I hope to God you're not feeling guilty about what just happened? Coulton fully intended to kill you. I heard everything he said up there."

"Not _guilty, _exactly_,"_ and he wasn't. Coulton had made himself clear. He would go down fighting and take Don with him, rather than go back to jail. No – guilty definitely wasn't the word. _It was,_ Don found it hard to articulate, _a touch closer to home than that._ It was back to the old _'grace of God'_ thing again.

_Or the skill and excellence of his team. _

David's marksmanship and Colby's raw strength. Megan's calmness and tactical planning. He'd had a lot of things working against him up there, versus some great elements on his side.

"Megan - " he started to say it, but somehow, his mouth wasn't working. With a sense of inevitability, Don knew he was in trouble again.

His vision was alarmingly blurry. Everything was happening in triplicate. He had the urge to cling onto the stair-rail, but he couldn't use his damned hands. Don felt himself slipping sideways. He was falling. _Falling again._ Sick, he felt so sick and dizzy, but he couldn't form the words to ask for help. He slumped weakly against Megan's shoulder and tried to take a deep breath.

"Don?" He heard the sudden alarm in her voice. "Don, can you still hear me?"

'_Oh, yeah, he could just about hear her. It was seeing her which was the problem.'_

"Okay, I got you. Lie back. I got you."

Megan put her arms around him, and lowered him down against the stairs. The world was soaring away from him – reeling drunkenly about in his head. So much for a few broken fingers. Don knew he was going to pass out.

"Stay with me, Don. Come on, stay with me." It was Megan again. This time, she sounded much sharper. "Granger – where the hell are those medics?"

'_Yeah, Granger. What the hell are you doing? Don't you know I'm in freefall here? I need someone to catch me again.'_

There were faces and voices around him. Don couldn't hear what was being said. A sensation of everything sliding away, then excruciating pain in his hand. Someone – _some idiot_ - had knocked it. He thought – _no, he hoped - _he swore at them. And if he didn't, he meant too. He yelled a stream of Anglo-Saxon in his head.

"Come on, Don, wake up. You don't have to do this." It was Megan talking again.

But he had no choice in the matter. Don knew he had lost his grip.

The too recognizable scratch of a needle. The unfamiliar faces of the medics. The jab in his arm as the IV port was sited. A sudden rush of cold fluid in his veins.

_Was it possible to fall in reverse?_

It felt like he was spiralling heavenwards. Sucked up in a vacuum through the hole in the roof, and thrown clear into the ragged patch of sky.

* * *

He was hurting. _Boy, was he hurting._ His head, his hands and his knee. Confused and bewildered as they spoke to him through a hazy, drug-enhanced dream. His world appeared to have shrunken to an obscure, pain-ridden blur.

_No good._ This was no good. He hated not being in control. Just being on his back in a room full of strangers was enough to make him feel vulnerable. Don wasn't convinced he had an alternative right now. He tried to move and failed miserably. The world took a ninety degree slant to the left and he almost rolled off the gurney.

"Hey, take it easy." It was a familiar voice. Soothing, and laced with concern.

For once, he was happy to oblige and obey. He sure as hell couldn't even lift his head. It seemed easier to lie here and do as he was told. To close his eyes and reel with the punches. He tried to recall what he was doing here. _Here,_ was obviously a hospital. His memory was returning in bite-sized snatches. Like waking up from a nightmare.

_Coulton._ He was up on the gantry with Coulton. Hanging on by his fingertips. Fire in his hands and a pain in his head as he fought against a fall to certain death. Then Megan's voice, calm and reassuring, telling him help was on the way. The sound of gunfire and whine of the bullets as David Sinclair took Coulton down.

And talking of down, he was falling. Hands slipping as his grip failed. A moment of crazy hysteria, combined with a strange acceptance. The feeling when someone caught him had sucked the strength right out of his body. As Colby hauled him up to safety, Don had almost passed out there and then. Coming down from an adrenalin high was never particularly easy. When you were racked with shock and shaking with pain, it seemed monumentally hard.

"Donnie, can you hear me?"

The voice again. Only two people called him Donnie. _'Yeah, right,'_ Don added a caveat. _Only dad and Charlie ever got away with it._ One or two people had tried in the past, but failed to walk away intact.

"Dad, is that you?" Don opened his eyes. He was ridiculously glad to see him.

"Who else can get away with calling you Donnie?"

_Hey, maybe dad was a mind-reader._ In the past, Don had often suspected it. Sometimes, Alan just knew things. Knew them without being told. Like the time when he was sixteen years old and he'd smoked his first joint beneath the bleachers. He'd been feeling pretty pleased with himself. _Boy, he'd rolled all the way home. _The feeling hadn't lasted much longer. He'd been sick as a dog in mom's roses. Dad had fixed him with a baleful stare the second he crept in through the door. He'd had to hose down the flower-bed, there and then, while his reeling head threatened to explode. Dad had banned him from all forms of baseball for a month. He'd never smoked another joint again.

"Megan called you, right?" Don sounded slow and stupid. Come to think of it, he felt that way too. His head was pounding with a vengeance. It seemed to be full of cotton-wool.

"Yes, she did. Just like she's supposed to." Did dad sound a tad defensive?

Don sighed. He hadn't meant it that way. He reached out to touch Alan's shoulder. "Hey, dad, no. That's not what I - " _Holy crap, he'd forgotten his hands._ The pain was truly excruciating. It lanced the length of his arm. Don swore, he couldn't help it. For a moment, he saw stars.

"Easy. Easy, Donnie." Alan's touch was gentle on his shoulders. "The doctors are looking at the x-rays now. It seems you've got a few broken bones.

"No kidding?" Don gasped through the waves of agony and fought hard to catch his breath. He zeroed in on the offending appendages and didn't much like what he saw. Both his hands looked like the meat counter. Red raw, bloody and swollen. _Up side_ - no paper or cyber work for a while. _Down side _– he could see it all now. He was doomed to be dad and Charlie's prisoner for the vague, indefinite future.

"Lot of fuss for a few broken fingers." Eventually, Don was able to talk again. _Geez – so he'd cracked a couple of knuckles_. He was beginning to feel a little embarrassed he'd actually passed out.

"You think so?" Dad sounded ominously grim. "You think _this_ is a lot of fuss? Well, perhaps I ought to mention your head. Donnie, thick-skulled, you may be, but you still sustained a severe concussion. The intern just took advantage of the fact you were unconscious to put fifteen stitches in your scalp. Not to mention a twisted knee and a couple of other lacerations. Oh, and then there's the little matter you nearly fell forty feet to your death."

"Megan shouldn't have told you that." Don felt a stab of annoyance. That kind of information was most certainly _need to know._

"Don't you go blaming Megan. She didn't give you away. I'm your father. I'm supposed to be sneaky. I'm perfectly capable of reading your notes."

"Dad," Don gave a sigh of resignation and reconciled himself to his fate. A severe concussion in hospital-speak, meant at least, an overnight stay. Besides, he had the mother of all headaches. He could probably sleep a dozen hours away. He focused on Alan and tried again. His vision was still a little blurry. "I wasn't being dismissive. It's like – like my way of coping with things. I hope - "

And that was about as far as he got, before Alan stopped him from talking. He put his hand very carefully on top of Don's head and placed a finger over his lips. "Hush, my son. I know what it is. And I know exactly why you do it_. I'm _telling you I understand. You don't have to explain anymore."

Don was speechless for a second or two. A sense of warmth began to steal through him. Darkness and overwhelming fatigue were waiting to ambush him again. Don gave in, and his eyelids fluttered closed. He was tired. _So very weary._ The last thing he was aware of, just before he surrendered, was the weight of Alan's hand on his head.

**TBC**

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	3. Chapter 3

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Three**_

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Don regarded the wheelchair with tight-lipped exasperation. He really didn't require this. He just needed a little help, here and there, he wasn't an invalid. _Like now, when he was packing his stuff would be good._ But not an Alan or Charlie in sight. It was difficult balancing on crutches with a cast on one of his hands. _A wheelchair._ God, he hated all this. Being wheeled about like a freakin' side-show. Okay, so it was hospital policy, but he had a suspicion it gave dad too much pleasure.

He glared at the pile of clothes on the bed. This was becoming a conspiracy theory. There were sweatpants and a fleece-lined hoodie, instead of the jeans he'd requested. There was also a conspicuous absence of shoes. _Probably just in case he did a runner. _Although, how the hell they expected him to get very far, was quite another matter entirely. His knee was bruised in shades of glorious technicolour and still swollen up like a balloon.

_On second thoughts, maybe the wheelchair wasn't such a bad idea._

Just as a temporary solution, of course To negotiate the maze of hospital corridors. Once he was back in the sane world, he needed to start working on his leg.

_The sane world_. Don gave a bitter laugh. He was going back to Pasadena. A couple of weeks of dad playing nurse-maid. There would be no _sane world_ for him. _Fleece-lined._ Don threw down the sweat-shirt in disgust. He knew exactly why dad had brought it. Just in case he took a chill on his way out to the car. _It was ninety degrees in the shade._

"Hey, there," there was a knock on the door and Megan poked her head around with caution. "We just met Alan down by the coffee machine. He says you're going home today?"

"Yeah." Don knew he sounded grumpy. He should probably make more of an effort. After all, it wasn't Megan's fault he'd ended up this way.

"Um, I didn't hear any news about a cold snap. You know something about the weather we don't?" David Sinclair moved into the room and looked at the clothes on the bed. He picked up the discarded sweat-shirt, the hint of a smile on his face.

"Laugh it up, while you still can." Don scowled at him. "I'll be back at work sooner than you think. I hear there's like a whole skyscraper's worth of paperwork building up on my desk?"

"Not laughing. I am _so not _laughing." David put the sweat-shirt down, hurriedly. "And as for the rumours of paperwork, I hear Granger's become pretty good at it."

"Granger thinks he earned a _get outta jail free_, card." Don enjoyed rubbing it in a little. _Hey – if he had to suffer, why shouldn't everyone else?_

He gave a sigh and perched on the edge of the bed. He hated being an invalid. The word itself, kind of said it all. _Invalid – having no validation._ A stretch of useless weeks loomed ahead. Don ground his teeth in frustration. He hated the enforced inactivity. The inertia and drag of wasted time. Sat on his ass in Pasadena while the big wide world passed him by.

Megan caught his eye and shook her head. _Was she smiling_ – she was definitely smiling. Profiler, or not, she knew him too well. Don swore she could read his mind. Sometimes, she worried him a little. He suspected she might be a witch.

He surrendered and gave a reluctant grin. "The fleece - its dad - you know what he gets like. He's gone into super-nurse mode. This is just, _like_ a precaution. In case I catch pneumonia on my way out of the building – from the doors to the parking lot. He has this notion I'm sick or something. It's easier to play along."

"Really?" Megan started to help him pack. "Whatever gave him that idea? After all, you just spent a week in hospital with a serious concussion. Not to mention undergoing surgery to fix up your broken hand. Pretty unreasonable of him, I'd say."

"Very funny." Don groused, half-heartedly, a smile still lingering on his lips. It was hard to be irritable with any of his team when they'd come through in golden spades for him.

Don looked over at David who was standing beside the window. He remembered a time, another situation, when he'd saved David's life in quite a similar way. It was the first case they'd worked on together. When Terry was still on his team. They'd been after a serial rapist who tortured and then killed his victims. David was assigned to him by Merrick, ostensibly to provide an extra pair of hands. The reality had been slightly different. Merrick wanted someone on the inside. It was damnable position to be placed in, and Sinclair had drawn the short straw. Don had been sympathetic, but in no mood to baby-sit. Conversely, David had surprised them all by doggedly remaining his own man. In the end, Don had saved his life and earned himself a loyal friend.

Don knew it was time to cut David some slack. His bad mood was evaporating. He was still badly shaken by his brush with death, but it could have been so much worse. "Talking of get out of jail cards, David, that was pretty nice team work back there. Sometime in the future, when I can hold a knife and fork, we should all go eat and sink a few beers." He gestured ruefully down at his hands. "With any luck, I can pick up the tab."

"You got it, and you're welcome. A few beers would be very nice."

There was real sincerity in Sinclair's voice as he nodded with quick agreement. The last few seconds up on the gantry flashed through Don's head again. Those moments, before Coulton had been challenged. They still haunted the dark recesses of his dreams. Made him wake up shaking and sweating, tangled up in the wreck of his sheets. _He'd been so certain he was going to fall. _So certain it was over. After Coulton had pointed the gun in his face, hearing David had seemed like a miracle.

"Hey," Megan's tone was softer. _Was she reading his mind yet again?_ "You know we'll hold you to that one, Bossman, and I say we get to pick the restaurant. As for the _nice teamwork_," she placed a light hand on his shoulder. "You didn't really leave us an alternative. If David and Colby hadn't got to you in time, think of the inconvenience and mess. We've spent a lot of time and energy in training you just right. We would have had to break in a new boss."

"Thanks," Don said, wryly. He was glad of her support as he recovered his sense of balance. He had to get past the falling thing. This sort of flashback was really uncool. Was he suffering from PTSD? He disregarded the thought a little cynically. It was the trendy new buzz-disorder. Bad things had been happening to people forever. Time to get over it and move on.

_Move,_ of course, being the operative word. His mobility was figurative rather than literal. Don stared rather balefully at the wheelchair. It was developing outsized proportions. A symbol of weeks of frustration ahead, Don decided he hated the thing. _Yeah – he supposed he should be grateful._ He was lucky not to be stuck in it for the duration. As painful and swollen as it undoubtedly was, thank the Lord, he could still weight-bear on his knee. The crutches were there to help take the strain. _The physical strain, that was._ If Don was being totally honest, it was the mental strain he was dreading.

What was the name of that ancient British movie, the black and white version mom liked? The prisoner of something – _Prisoner of Zenda._ Don's throat was suddenly tight. He would often tease her about it. She always loved those corny old films. '_Rainy day movies,'_ Don remembered. That's what she used to call them. Perfect for watching on wet afternoons when the rain beat like a drum on the glass.

_Zenda – Pasadena._ Well, hell, it was almost an anagram.

_The Prisoner of Pasadena._

Yup – that was _so _going to be him.

Confined at the mercy of dad and Charlie – locked away in his Craftsman house tower. Cosseted and pampered to within an inch of his life, his whole being determined by their whim. Don considered the options. They were looking decidedly thin. But if dad was down at the coffee machine, it meant he still had a few minutes grace. Enough time to limp down to the lobby and heave himself into a taxi. He could hustle back to his apartment, lock the door, and refuse to let them in. For a moment, he considered bribing his team, but he didn't have any money. And besides, when it came to the wrath of Alan Eppes, they probably couldn't be trusted.

Don sighed. _Ein brera_, as Bubbe Eppes used to say. In Hebrew, _'there is no alternative.' _The _'Great Escape,'_ day-dreams helped him a little. He could always be a rebel in his head.

"By the way, the _Star Wars_ analogy?" Megan interrupted his thoughts again, and shot him a snarky grin. "I didn't realise you were such a fan. But I don't see you as the innocent, Luke Skywalker, type. I think _the Force_ is more Charlie's bag."

"As a kid I was always Han Solo. The cool one. Swash-buckling and brave."

"That figures," she raised an eyebrow. "Cynical, and kinda cocky. Swaggering around with a big blaster."

"Hey," Don protested, mildly. "Isn't that just like a woman – bringing size into the equation. Never judge a man by the size of his blaster. You leave size outta this."

"Talking of sexual stereotypes - " Don knew she wouldn't let him get away with that one. "Isn't that what men always say when _it_ isn't big enough?"

"Are we still talking about the blaster?" David cleared his throat with a grin. "Because if we are, I have a question. Do I get to play with one too?"

"What am I missing?" Charlie walked into the room, his eyes seeking out Don immediately. "There's an awful lot of levity going on in here. I could hear you guys right down the corridor."

"Just Megan comparing size again." Don got his two cents in first. "Be very careful, little brother. She's after the dimensions of your light sabre."

"You know, I still have that." Charlie's eyes lit up. "Somewhere out in the garage. Larry and I looked into the possibility of actually constructing one with plasma. Of course, the problem with plasma, is that it is inherently unstable. The proportions just weren't viable in such a miniaturised form."

Don rolled his eyes and choked back a grin. Oh brother, _miniaturised form?_ He didn't dare glance over at Megan. He might end up with yet another injury. Charlie was getting that glazed look about him. He hadn't got a clue what he'd just said. The innuendo had sailed right over his head and he was getting high on something else entirely.

"Confining the plasma would have allowed us to lengthen it," Charlie carried on with his story. "But the equipment required to operate such a device would weigh in at several tons."

Things were going from bad to worse. By now, Don was feeling hysterical. The pain of _not_ laughing was crushing his chest. He felt like a kid in fifth grade. Okay, he _would _need the wheelchair. His legs sure weren't capable of moving. For the first time in days, he felt almost light-hearted, as the coils of tension started to relax. _Charlie._ It was thanks to Charlie. Don felt a sudden rush of affection. Even though his brother didn't know it. Charlie had unwittingly turned the key and relieved some of the burden he carried.

"There are already some very large plasmatron's out there_."_

_Oh, man, shut up, Charlie. _He was _still_ going on about light sabres. This whole _Star Wars_ thing was determined to haunt him. Don wondered why he'd ever brought it up.

"The French use one to test their _Hermes_ space shuttle. But attempting to confine enough affective power within such a small magnetic field, would turn your average Jedi warrior into a walking bomb."

"Fascinating," said David, politely. He was the only one still capable of answering. He shot Don a _'you owe me, big-time,'_ grin, and gave Charlie a pat on the back. "I think, like Han Solo, I'll stick to the blaster. Or better still, my standard issue, Smith and Wesson. It might not be effective against Darth Vader, but on the whole, it seems to do okay."

"Larry's into _Star Wars?"_ Megan looked heavenward with a sigh, an expression of mock horror on her face. She'd recovered her equilibrium enough by now, to form a coherent sentence. "Oh lord, won't someone please save me? I guess I should have known."

"What's the matter?" Don couldn't resist it. "Doesn't Larry make you feel the _Force_?"

Charlie rightly ignored Don's comment. He glanced across at Megan in some surprise. "I'm surprised he hasn't mentioned it. Larry's a Grand Master on the Californian Jedi Council. He has been for over twenty years. He's also the proud owner of one of the largest collections of _Star Wars_ action figures in the world." He stared at them all, bewildered. "What? Will someone tell me why that's so funny? Come on, guys, give me a break here. Let me in on the joke?"

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Four**_

****

****

_Star Wars,_ light sabres, and hover speeders. Don wished to hell he had a blaster right now. It might just save his life. Charlie had taken the whole _Star Wars _thing to heart, a little too enthusiastically. From the way he was pushing the wheelchair, Don felt like he was in hyperdrive. He closed his eyes and would have crossed his fingers. _If they hadn't been too swollen and sore. _

_Made it. _Don exhaled with relief. They were safely in the elevator. Charlie actually managed to get him inside without striking his knee on the doors. Don thanked the Lord and the _Force_ for small mercies. The age of miracles wasn't dead. He supposed, in a way, he should be grateful. It was the only part of the hospital with which he hadn't shared intimate contact.

So okay, he might be exaggerating. There had only been two collisions. One very painful one leaving his room, and a slight _contretemps_ in the corridor. _How the hell did Charlie survive on his push-bike?_ Don could hardly bear to think about it. An average day at the FBI seemed like flower arranging in comparison. Charlie's typical journey to work was far more hazardous than dealing with criminals. If his brother's steering was so consistently bad, Don gave thanks he very rarely drove a car.

He became aware Charlie was studying him, the hint of a frown on his face. "Are you warm enough?" he said, suddenly. "You're only wearing a t-shirt. Dad said to make sure you were wrapped up well. He mentioned something about a fleece."

"Charlie," Don gave an exasperated sigh. "It's around ninety degrees in the shade. I think I'll survive a trip to the car without catching bubonic plague."

"I wasn't actually concerned about bubonic plague. You're not likely to contract _Y Pestis_ unless . . ."

"Charlie, I swear, so help me, if you go all medical text book on me, I'm out of here, wheelchair or no wheelchair. _And_, believe it or not, I_ am _acquainted with the ways of contracting _Y Pestis._ It's one of the most potential forms of germ warfare, so I have to be on familiar terms with it. Contrary to public belief," Don's tone was wry, "the FBI _does _expect us to know a little more than how to fire a gun. You read the job application form lately? If they took like, one look at _your _spelling, _you, bro,_ probably wouldn't get in."

"Sorry." Charlie looked at him sideways, and loftily ignored the last comment. "Look, I know we sometimes go a little over the top, but you can't stop us from worrying about you. Having Megan come to the house last week? Let me tell you, it was a horrible shock."

_Damn._ Don immediately felt in the wrong. How come Charlie could always do this? Don had to give him credit. He was good. _He was very good._ One roll of those big, brown,_ Bambi_ eyes, and he was eating out of Charlie's hand. In his own way, Charlie was better than dad. He just did the stricken waif thing. A dose of silence, a slightly trembling lip, and Don was guilty until proven innocent.

There was no one else in the elevator, and Don was grateful for this concession, at least. He did so _not_ want this conversation in front of any interested spectators. As a matter of fact, if the truth be told, he did not want this conversation at all. He was eager to bury the subject and put it firmly behind him for good. The less time spent thinking about his encounter with Coulton, the better.

"Yeah, right, I know it was tough on you and dad. I'm sorry I put you through it. But once in a while, these things happen. They sort of go along with the turf."

Charlie gave him an old-fashioned look. "Gee, if you're trying to be reassuring, well now, I feel so much better. So you're saying we can look forward to doing this on a statistically regular basis?"

"Well, if you're gonna take the FBI as a sample, then I guess the answer is yes. You know what I do is dangerous. The variables will always be out there. As long as it's my job to hunt them down, there's a slight probability I'll get hurt."

"I hate it that you're so blasé. You sound so offhand about it. Most people don't go to work everyday and accept they might end up hospitalised."

"_Most people_ don't have to deal with the kind of crap _I_ see, on a daily basis." Don could feel his blood-pressure rising. "In fact, _I'm_ part of the reason _most people _aren't exposed to that sort of threat. What the hell do you expect from me Charlie? I can't tell you what you want to hear."

"I know," said Charlie, angrily. "Pardon me for daring to care."

The elevator bumped to a halt. Not a moment too soon, in Don's view. He had a feeling this little squall with Charlie was simply the end of round one. Don groaned inwardly. He really should have made that break for freedom while he could. Not only was there more to come from Charlie, he had yet to meet the Master. _IE – dad._

_The Master,_ who was presently engaged in bringing the car to the front entrance of the hospital. A nice trip home in the ratty old Volvo – it got better and better all the time. Don knew he would feel every pothole; the thing had the suspension of a tank.

As Alan took great pride in telling him, the Volvo had won manufacturing awards for being the safest car in the world. He would quote the company motto: _'Volvo for Life,' _whenever Don dared to criticise it.

_The 'for life' bit was right,_ Don thought, with a scowl.

Nothing ever went wrong with it. The damned car went on and on running. _Year after reliable year._ Not a kilometre over sixty miles per hour, of course. Maybe they didn't _do _speed in Sweden. Sturdy, robust and dependable – shaped like an oblong box. Nor was it built for comfort either. Don gave an anticipatory grimace. Nope, his ride home would definitely not be conducive to the comfort of heroically recovering FBI agents.

Once they had him back in Pasadena, Don had a suspicion round two would begin. There would be a pile of cushions waiting on the sofa and chicken soup bubbling on the stove. It wasn't that he didn't like chicken soup. He did, he had grown up with it. And, thanks to Bubbe Eppes hand-me-down recipe, Alan's was second to none. It was just the whole sickness/invalid thing. He hated it. _Really loathed it with a passion. _He'd watched his mother fade away to nothing in front of his very eyes. Every time he'd opened the front door of the house, the sickly-sweet scent of her illness had overwhelmed him. It had taken months for the house to smell normal again. To walk in and not be reminded of the last painful episode of her life.

Anything reminiscent of that period was still capable of triggering immense sorrow. There was an aching hole inside him which seemed like it would never go away. Sometimes, when he looked into the shadows, he half expected to see her waiting there. Don sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He'd love to see her – yup, even her ghost. _But she would probably be waiting for Charlie._ She hadn't waited very much for him.

Damn. _Where had that thought come from?_ Somewhere deep in the back of his psyche. It wasn't that she'd loved Charlie more than him – Don knew that had never been the issue. It was just that Charlie had needed her more.

_Or, at least, on the surface of things. _

_Not the time._ This was _so_ not the time. The last thing he wanted, right at this minute, was to resurrect his feelings about mom. Everything he thought he'd successfully buried felt close to the surface again. All the time she'd devoted to Charlie, the years she'd spent with him at Princeton. When the cancer had eventually taken her from them, it felt as though Don had lost her twice. Life was complicated enough as it was. He _so_ couldn't deal with any more of it. Facing his demons and seeing the shrink – it left him feeling raw and exposed. He'd only just learned how to come to terms with a lot of the crap in his head. It was more than enough for now.

The elevator doors slid open and Charlie prepared to push him out. The wheelchair caught on the lip of the car where it didn't quite align with the floor. The next thing Don knew, he was falling again – only not from such a spectacular height. The chair toppled over and he tipped out into the corridor in an ungainly sprawl of limbs. He heard Charlie give a shout of warning as he thudded down onto his shoulder. He couldn't put his hands out to save him without damaging them even more.

For a moment he lay there, too stunned to move, the wheelchair tangled on top of him. His knee was shrieking and his shoulder throbbed. _Could this day actually get any better?_

"Don?" It was Charlie, frantic with concern. "Don, oh God, are you okay?"

_Was he okay?_

Don didn't know. He wasn't sure any longer. The humour of it bubbled up inside him and he began to shake with silent laughter. And, so what, if the humour was tinged with black, it didn't mean he'd turned to the dark side. Don shook his head, there it was again. The reoccurring _Star Wars_ theme. Part of him wouldn't have been surprised in the least to discover it was all some weird dream.

His shoulders were already tender. Still stiff and sore from hanging off the gantry. Apparently, he'd been very lucky indeed not to seriously damage the joints. _Lucky._ There it was, that word again. Perhaps it was a state of being? Whatever it was, it applied to him. _Or so everyone kept saying._

"Bro?" It was Charlie beside him, sounding stricken. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Don lay there and reflected on the irony. The words were the absolute truth. No, Charlie hadn't _ever_ meant to hurt him at all. Life had just turned out that way.

"I think I ought to go find a doctor." Charlie was pale with anxiety.

_Uh-oh,_ time to pull himself together if he wanted to split this joint. "It's okay, I'm fine." Don controlled his hysteria. "Honestly, Chuck, it's okay. Just give me a moment, then help me get up. Quickly, before dad comes to find us."

Charlie went even whiter at the mention of Alan. The thought didn't bear any close scrutiny. To discover them here, like this, right now - their father would be so unamused. The idea of it made Don smile again. At least he hadn't lost his sense of humour. He rolled onto his back and pushed up on his elbows, ignoring his numerous aches and pains. By now, they _were_ attracting quite an audience. A small crowd of concerned bystanders had begun to gather round the elevator doors. Don thanked the Lord, or the_ Force_, or whatever, for the mercy and modesty of sweatpants.

_If he'd still been wearing his hospital gown_ . . . the thought almost made him shudder.

One of the on-lookers knelt down beside him. A pretty, auburn-haired nurse. She checked him over with a quick, professional glance. "Did you hurt yourself, Sir?"

There was a pregnant silence, and then Don rolled his eyes. He held up both his damaged hands. Their glances locked and she laughed out loud. Don saw her check him out again. This time, it was not quite so professional, and for a moment, he considered the possibilities. She was cute and her smile was sassy. He liked the way her uniform fit. _Hey_, Don caught Charlie frowning at him._ He'd been stuck in here over a week. _It wasn't as if he pretended to live like a monk. He was a fully-grown, red-blooded man.

By the time he was ensconced safely back in the chair, he'd reluctantly decided against it. His enforced convalescence at _Casa Eppes_ was categorically preclusive to romance. By now, the small crowd had begun to disperse, although Charlie was still hovering over him. Don gave the nurse a regretful smile, but made a mental note of her name badge.

_Having highly-trained, observational powers, had to come in handy, now and then. _

"I still think we ought to get you checked out. You just got over a bad concussion. What if you banged your head again? You went down pretty hard on that floor."

"Charlie, I didn't bang my head." Don couldn't help sighing a little. "I promise you, I'm not going to relapse. Now put your foot on the gas and get us out of here. And Charlie – not a single word to dad."

Charlie muttered a couple of words that dad would have found a tad shocking. They didn't hurt Don's fragile sensibilities, but he was kind of surprised Charlie knew them. In-fact, Charlie had surprised him a heck of a lot, in the subsequent years since he'd returned home. It was amazing just how much was different.

_And yet, some things remained depressingly the same. _

_Charlie._ Don frowned and hooked his elbows around the arms of the chair, as they broke the sound barrier whizzing down the corridor. Maybe Charlie could push him all the way home. This was probably a damned sight faster than the Volvo. _On second thoughts_ . . . Don closed his eyes as they narrowly missed colliding with a gurney. The Volvo was definitely the safer option if he wanted to stay alive.

Don knew that, in-spite of the wheelchair incident, Charlie was still somewhat mad at him. Perhaps it was the way they flew around the corners or screeched to a halt at the doors. Or maybe, Charlie was just a sadist who liked torturing helpless invalids. Especially, when '_said'_ invalid was his beloved big brother, who had royally pissed him off.

It didn't take a genius to understand it. Truth was, he saw where Charlie was coming from. Don knew he could be unreachable when he disappeared down his emotional well. _Emotional well – _he almost snorted. Shrink talk and psycho-babble. And yet, he felt a degree of connection to the term. It was Terry Lake who'd first applied it to him.

A getaway clause, an escape route. _Shields-up,_ if he wanted to be spacey. Although, he kinda had a feeling that came from _Star Trek_ and not the eponymous _Star Wars._ Yeah, well, the good thing about being a life-long protector, was that he'd gotten good at protecting himself. He'd done it so well, for so many years now, it had almost become second habit. _Which failed to explain why this recent encounter had rattled him so much. _

Yeah, so Don knew where Charlie was coming from. Didn't mean he could do anything about it. Anymore than Charlie could help his self-absorption, or dad could stop being . . . well_, dad._

They were all too far along the road to be capable of changing _that_ radically. Don rather favoured the trickle effect which meant one small drop at a time. So okay, since he'd returned from Albuquerque, there hadn't been any sign of a monsoon. But there _had_ been the odd shower, now and then, and a steady, light drizzle had been falling.

_Since when had he started thinking in metaphors?_

Perhaps it was the bump on the head. He was beginning to sound like some character in a badly written _detective noir_. Don Eppes, Private Eye. Yeah, it had a ring about it. Maybe when the FBI pensioned him off, he should think about renting some seedy offices downtown, and hiring a voluptuous blonde. _If _the FBI pensioned him off. _If he managed to keep dodging the bullets. _Don found it hard to look too far into the future. Hard to think too far ahead.

Don saw they were nearing the exit doors. Another minute or two and he'd be out of here. Despite or in-spite of, his melancholy, Don felt a huge sense of relief.

**TBC**

**NB **- I know Alan does drive another make of car in some of the episodes, but for this particular story, I'm sticking with the Volvo from Charlie's dream in _'Hotshot.'_

Lisa.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Five**_

****

****

The journey home was every bit as much of a nightmare as Don had predicted. He wished he'd chosen to sit in the passenger side, instead of opting to stretch out in the back seat. Nowhere seemed to be comfortable. Every little bit of him hurt. His head had started to pound again and he was aching from the wheelchair incident.

All he wanted to do was close his eyes and try and survive the journey. But to add insult to injury, dad and Charlie had other ideas. They were both inordinately cheerful. Almost worryingly so. Don could only assume it had something to do with the fact he was now irrevocably in their clutches.

_The Prisoner of Pasadena. _

The phrase ran through his mind again. Never had truer words been spoken in jest. He had a feeling this was only the beginning_. Just wait till they got back to the house. _They drew to a stop at a red light, and Alan reached over to the glove compartment. Don watched with a sinking feeling as he pulled out a much-loved cassette. There was no CD player in the Volvo, of course. That would be _too_ _much_ like progress. Don waited as the cassette slid into the slot. _What musical delights were in store?_

Back to the sixties, he should have guessed. _The Beatles,_ _Greatest Hits._ Dad was nothing if not predictable, and a true child of the flower generation. Don lay back against the pillows – _yup, there had been pillows waiting for him in the car_ – and forced himself to relax. Truth was, deep down, he was touched by all this. However smothering and exasperating it was, they were doing it because they both cared.

Charlie had been pretty pissy with him until they arrived at the car. Then, by tacit, fraternal agreement, they both put on a show for dad. The wheelchair incident had _not_ been mentioned. Don was more than happy to keep it that way. Alan would probably insist he go back and get checked out by a doctor again.

"You comfortable back there?" It was dad, right on cue.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Don lied.

"The traffic's terrible." Alan stepped on the brake. "This is going to take us a while.

Don gripped hold of the edge of the seat and hung on as the car gave a jolt._ "Great_," he muttered under his breath. Out loud, he repeated; "I'm fine."

Either Charlie had suddenly developed a cough, or his brother just forcibly snorted. Don chose to ignore it as the dad hit the brakes again. They continued like this for twenty minutes or so, a series of stop/start lurches as they nose-to-tailed it along the road. Don felt every agonising bump as they slowly inched their way home. He turned his face into the pillows and closed his eyes, a layer of sweat on his brow. If he concentrated hard and blanked his mind, he might _just_ keep his lunch down.

Gas fumes, the sharp scent of petrel. The heat burning up from the road. To the accompanying strains of _'I am the Walrus.'_ Don began to think he was in hell. Roasting – he was burning up. _So much for dad and the damned fleece._ As for the threatened pneumonia, it was looking highly unlikely. Not so much _'I am the Egg Man,' _as I am the _fried egg_ man. Don felt like his temperature was raging. Very soon, he would expire from heat-stroke.

The back of his t-shirt was wringing wet, his body stuck to the vinyl seat. _Oh, God, there was no air-conditioning._ Don didn't know if he could stand it. At the rate the rush-hour traffic was moving, it was at least another hour to Pasadena. He thought longingly of his beautiful SUV. Leather seats and anti UV tinted windows, and most importantly, efficient air con which made the interior ice-cold. And if he was caught up in traffic snarls, a nifty red light to flick on.

So much for keeping his lunch down. His stomach, clearly, had other ideas. It was becoming more difficult with each passing second to fight off the waves of nausea.

'_Mister City P'liceman sitting  
Pretty little p'licemen in a row.  
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.  
I'm crying. I'm cry------------ing,  
I'm crying. I'm cry------------ing.'_

He wasn't crying, but he wanted to. _Oh boy, did he want to, right now._ His gut did a perfect triple salko, and made its own belated protest against the delights of hospital cuisine.

Don shifted forward abruptly, and placed an urgent hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Chuck - " he just about choked the word out, whilst registering the double irony. If dad didn't manage to pull over in time, he truly _was_ going to _chuck._ _All over the back seat of dad's pride and joy. It was not going to be very pretty._

"Uh – oh," Charlie took one look at him. "Dad, you need to pull over."

"Charlie, have you seen the traffic . . ."

"Dad, if you don't pull over, Don's going to barf in the back seat."

Alan swivelled his head around, and quickly scanned Don's face. One glimpse was all it took to convince him. Don was pale, but not usually green. He flipped on the right indicator, and stuck the car's nose into the inside lane. "Hold on, there, Donnie. Just a second or two. Now, take some deep breaths for me."

_Deep breaths were out of the question. No breaths were easiest of all._ Don tried to ignore his stomach cramps and the irate trucker behind them. _Perhaps heaven came in the mysterious disguise of swift death by monster truck?_ Just when he thought it was his day for wheeled collisions, they scraped past the truck by mere inches. Alan eased into the right-hand lane and pulled over on the soft shoulder. _This was the point where Don got out of the car. _It was all very well in theory, but not so good when your hands were strapped up, and your knee was incapacitated in a brace. Don could barely move, even if he wanted to. And his stomach said he wanted to. _Big time._

He was vaguely aware of Charlie springing to action and leaping out of the passenger side. Then the door behind him opened abruptly and he tumbled out in a flurry of pillows. _Here we go again,_ he was falling. Backwards, onto the concrete. But _this time,_ like the time on the gantry, there was someone there to catch him when he fell.

"Whoa, there," Charlie caught hold of his shoulders. "Hold on, I've got you, bro."

If Don hadn't felt so abject, he would have laughed at that. _'Hold on. Yeah, right, Charlie. Mind telling me like, with what?'_

There were other hands, gentle on his shoulders, easing him down carefully onto the roadside. He twisted his body around onto his knees and promptly lost the remainder of his dignity. The sickness went on forever. Or at least, it appeared that way. One agonising bout after another as he knelt there and shivered wretchedly in the dust.

Alan supported Don firmly. He held him close, up against his chest. Protecting him from drive-by on-lookers and the red-hot glare of the sun. "It's okay, Donnie, hang-on in there. We've got you. We won't let you fall."

It wasn't so much the falling now. Quite frankly, Don no longer cared. He was hardly conscious of anything, anymore, but the miserable cramping of his stomach.

"Here," it was Charlie's voice again. Concerned, and surprisingly gentle. "Wash your mouth out with some of this water. Come on, Don, don't be stubborn. Just a couple of small sips."

"Can't," Don shuddered and turned away. "Puke – gonna puke again."

Instead, he curled over as his body dry-heaved. There was nothing left to purge from his gut. There was a soothing moistness on his forehead. It was cool and felt like heaven. In this dystopian nightmare of heat and hell, Don would take anything he could. Charlie was bathing his temples with something damp and lemon-scented. _Oh, yeah,_ now Don remembered, _dad always kept wet-wipes in the car. _

The fragrance took him straight back to his childhood, and long, golden days at the beach. Of car journeys up into the mountains, and picnics, and sticky fingers. Melted ice-cream and sand in the food. And, one-time, a Charlie nose-bleed, all over the back of the car. Don felt so disorientated, he almost collapsed. He would have done so, if it wasn't for Alan. Wet wipes – who would have thought it. _Most of all, they reminded him of mom. _

There were sometimes, few and far between, when he'd been the sole recipient of her attention. In the dark days, back before Imitrex, when his skull would periodically explode. He'd had migraines ever since childhood. Crippling and incapacitating. Mom had always used the wet-wipes to bathe his throbbing head. Even though his sense of smell always went funky, lemon was one of the few scents he could stand. _But not now._ He just wasn't strong enough. He really couldn't stand it right now. The associations of that particular smell were more than he could bear. However soothing the coolness on his brow, the aroma was breaking his heart.

Don pushed clumsily at Charlie's hand. Talk about ineffectual. He could hardly raise the strength to lift his arm up, let alone deflect a determined Charlie.

"Come on, Don, drink some of the water. You're going to get dehydrated." Charlie sounded taut with anxiety. "Maybe dad should turn the car around and drive you back to the hospital again."

Nope, that was the last thing he wanted. The threat of returning to hospital was enough to permeate his foggy brain. He managed to control the shivering just enough to nod his pounding head in acquiescence. Charlie held the bottle up to his mouth and he swallowed a couple of sips. Don felt his stomach tense immediately, but he fought hard to hold the water down. This time, he was successful. Despite the cramps, it stayed where it was. He closed his eyes and leant back against Alan, while the world did the rumba around him.

He hoped – _really hoped_ - this was just an anomaly. Little brother Charlie's, favourite word. A combination of heat, and gas fumes, and not the fall out of the wheelchair. Or, maybe he _had_ hit his head again, and exacerbated his concussion. He hadn't. At least, he didn't _think_ he had. Don couldn't really remember. He'd been too busy trying to preserve a little dignity, when he got up close and personal with the floor.

He didn't know how long they stayed there_. Gee – time flew when you were having fun. _The minutes passed by in a swirl of traffic fumes. Don breathed them in along with the dust. He half-kneeled/half-flopped at the roadside, too weak and dizzy to move. They would all die from carbon monoxide poisoning, if he didn't get his mojo back soon.

If Alan hadn't been there to support him, he'd have taken a nose-dive to the ground. Yet more deja-vu from his childhood. For some reason, the memories just hurt him. The whole thing – _this whole thing_ with Coulton had stripped back his emotions to the bone. In-spite of his misery, Don recognised the incident had opened up a can of worms.

_Why now, after several years had passed?_ He didn't have a clue. He'd been getting over it, moving on. Coming to terms with mom's death at last, after months of brave-faced sorrow. The tears he'd cried had been shed in private. He'd been too busy to show his grief, trying to cope with both Charlie and dad. He'd made all the funeral arrangements, according to mom's pre-arranged wishes. Organised a wake and booked the caterers, and informed those who needed to know. By the time it was over and the dust had settled down, it had left him floating aimlessly in a vacuum. Don had been weary, bereft of all tears. A strange paralysis had crept through him.

_I was never ignoring you, mom._

Apart from the roar of the rush-hour traffic, the _Beatles_ sang on in the background. They'd got through the psychedelic stage (thank God) and moved on to more standard songs. Not that he was anti _Lucy in the Sky_ – in fact he'd always rather liked it. It was just that he wasn't quite up to the allusions of _tangerine skies_. And as for the _rocking horse people_ – well, at the moment, as far as Don was concerned, they could shove their _marshmallow pies._

"Donnie?" Alan's voice was soft in his ear. "You're starting to worry me, son. I'm beginning to think maybe Charlie's right, and we should head straight back to the hospital."

"No - " Don tried to pull himself together. Going back was so _not _what he wanted. The thought of spending more time in hospital was worse than all the chicken soup in the world. "Give me a minute. Please, give me a minute. It's just the heat and the fumes. I'll be fine."

"You don't look fine. In fact, you look terrible. Don, why are you always so stubborn?"

Charlie sounded pissed off all over again. It was lucky he wasn't back in the wheelchair. In-spite of it all, the thought struck him as funny. Don forced a watery grin. "What you gonna do about it this time, Chuck? Dump my ass on the side of the road?"

"What's that?" Alan's ears pricked immediately. "Charlie, what's your brother talking about?"

"Nothing," Charlie scowled at Don. "I guess _Donnie_ must be feeling better. Maybe we _should_ get him out of here. I think the fumes are going to his head."

_It had worked._ Don turned his head to look at Charlie and shot him a genuine smile. He'd been counting on this kind of reaction to save him a return trip. Thank the Lord for Charlie. Whether his brother was aware of it or not, he'd just reprieved him from revisiting the hospital. To his surprise, Charlie grinned fleetingly back at him, and dropped just the hint of a wink. Don gaped at him for a second or two and nearly _did _fall on his ass.

"Are you ready to get back in the car, son?" Alan held Don steady again, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around him. "The traffic's eased off a little, and if we keep all the windows wide open - "

"Thanks, dad. I think I'll be okay."

_Exaggeration wasn't really lying._ Don quieted any rogue qualm of conscience by assuring himself of this. _Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound._ He decided to milk it a little and trade on dad's super-nurse instincts. If he sounded all mushy about being at home, then surely Alan would be putty in his hands. Anything to avoid going back to the hospital. To help set dad's mind at ease.

_The Prisoner of Pasadena. _

_Yeah, right. _Don had an uneasy feeling his next words would be back to haunt him.

"I just want – you know – I want to get home again. To have you and Charlie running around after me, waiting on me hand, foot and finger. Acting on my every whim."

"Don't push it, Donnie." Alan fixed him with a gimlet stare. "And don't think this little act of yours is fooling me. I don't know what you and Charlie have been up to, but I _do _know the both of you _too_ well."

"Dad - " Charlie's grin faded, and Don was transported back in time. One look from dad and Charlie crumbled. It had always been the same throughout their childhood. It was now or never for some speedy intervention, before Charlie owned up to everything. Don knew it would be back to the hospital for sure, if dad found out he'd taken a tumble.

"This has nothing to do with Charlie." _Boy, this really was like their childhood._ "He's just trying to do me a favour because he knows how much I want to get home."

"A favour, huh?"

Alan still didn't sound convinced, and quite frankly, Don couldn't blame him. It wasn't the greatest explanation he'd come up with. Truth was, it was pretty lame. But at the moment, it was all he could think of, his head felt stupid and fuzzy. Must be the residual concussion. He _really was_ off his game.

"All right." Alan looked at him steadily. "We won't go back to the hospital. But let me tell you, if this sickness continues, I intend to call Doctor Waldo out to the house. Lucky, for you, he still does home visits. I still golf with him from time to time. Even after your mother died, the two of us remained good friends."

Much to his relief, Alan left it there. Don was just too tired to argue. His head had started to pound again, and ironically, he really_ did_ long to get home. It took a while to get him back into the car. It was scary how it sapped all his energy. Don lay back against the pillows. He was more than glad of them now.

"You okay, bro?" asked Charlie, softly. "You want the music turned off?"

Did he? Don considered the question, and listened to the words of the song. He found to his surprise, that he didn't. Paradoxically, the lyrics were kind of soothing. If he was doing the _back to childhood_ thing, might as well go the whole hog.

"Leave it on," he qualified it some. "Maybe turn the volume down a little. But it'll help make the ride home go faster. It's okay, Charlie, let it be."

Dad started up the engine and eased them back out onto the freeway. Don turned his face into the smooth, white linen, and closed his aching eyes. The words were spookily appropriate, as he drifted in and out of restless sleep.

'_Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,  
Mmm gonna try with a little help from my friends  
Oh I get high with a little help from my friends  
Yes I get by with a little help from my friends,  
With a little help from my friends!_

_**TBC**_

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	6. Chapter 6

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Six**_

By the time the car pulled up outside the house, Don was more than glad to be back in Pasadena. He chalked down the whole trip home from the hospital as one of the worse in living memory. After the impromptu stop at the edge of the freeway, he'd barely made it the rest of the way without having to repeat the process. The bits in-between had been a nightmare. A never-ending journey of heat and hurting which left him aching and feverish. When at last, they turned into the driveway, he'd been too wrung-out to even care.

_The Prisoner of Pasadena._

_Right now, the dungeon looked pretty sweet._

Raging hot and wet with sweat, Don was sure he didn't smell very fragrant. All he wanted to do was get indoors and crash out someplace cold. _Very cold._ In-fact, the colder, the better. A vacation in Antarctica was looking pretty attractive right now. No one around for hundreds of miles – except for a few thousand penguins. No email or cell-phone signals, and the beer would always be chilled. _Oh man, it sounded like paradise._ Don wondered how soon he could go.

"Here we are, then. Home at last." Alan stated the obvious, and rubbed his hands happily together.

Don eyed the gesture, sourly. It seemed a little too smug for his liking. "We gonna sit out here in the driveway all evening, or do I actually get to go inside the house?"

He knew how cross and ill-humoured he appeared and immediately felt ashamed of himself. Dad and Charlie had been great while he'd been puking his guts up and they didn't deserve his bad temper.

"Hey, look, I'm sorry." He bit his tongue, and raised his hands awkwardly, careful not to jar his cast. "You guys have both been terrific. Forget I said those last words. It's just that I'm kind of uncomfortable back here. I need to get my head down." Don halted for a beat and sighed. "To be honest, this whole thing sucks."

"I know, Don, but maybe you ought to give thanks." Alan now sounded surprisingly brusque, as he took the keys out of the ignition. He kept his head lowered the entire time and averted his face from his sons. "Yes, it sucks, but don't forget it's not permanent. You lived. You get to fight another day. In the scheme of what _might _have happened, it could have been a lot worse."

_'It sucks?'_ Don stared at the back of his father's head. He was more than a little nonplussed. This was not the reaction he'd expected, nor the one he thought he deserved. Mild irritation, or a reprimand, sure. He'd earned a figurative rap on the knuckles. Or even, some sort of sentimental homily. But this – _this sudden bleakness_ - Don wasn't certain how to handle it. It was unlike the dad he knew and loved.

Charlie swivelled around to face him and Don raised a questioning eyebrow. Charlie merely shrugged his shoulders and gave a brief shake of his head. If the resident genius didn't know what was wrong, then Don felt he had no chance of sussing it. It was difficult enough just to function right now. He was feeling too tired and light-headed. Any hackneyed attempt at amateur psychology would be sure to end in disaster. He resolved to have a little chat with dad later. When he felt a tad more normal himself.

There was a strange, uneasy pause, before any of them spoke again. It was Charlie who ended the impasse by opening the passenger door. "Don't know about you, but I'm too hot and thirsty to stay out here any longer. As delightful as this little sojourn has been, I say we adjourn to the house."

"Fine by me." Don said, in relief. _What the hell was wrong with his father? _He couldn't recall Alan ever being like this before, it was disconcerting to say the least. He'd never been this abrupt and taciturn. Not even during the infamous _roses _incident. The whole journey had been a disaster. It was getting more surreal by the minute.

If getting into the car hadn't been easy, getting out again was ten times worse. The ride home had left Don feeling stiff and sore. His painkillers had long since worn off. Truth was, by the time dad and Charlie helped him as far as the front door, Don was thinking nostalgically of the wheelchair. He'd temporarily ditched the crutches for now. It was common-sense rather than valour. If he was honest, he didn't think he could use them without falling flat on his ass.

Don caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. It was _so_ not a pretty sight. He looked dishevelled - more than a little off-kilter - white-faced and crazy-eyed.

The last thing he wanted was a reception committee, but it seemed fate had other ideas. As soon as Alan opened the door, Don heard the sound of feminine voices. For a second, the world lurched on its axis. A strange shiver ran down Don's spine. It wasn't – _it couldn't_ – what _was_ he thinking?

_No, he was wrong. Mom was dead. _

He leaned against the door frame and took a deep breath. _Dear God, he was losing it big-time. _For a moment, _just for a moment there,_ he'd genuinely thought she was inside. She wasn't, of course. It was Millie Finch, followed out of the kitchen by Amita. Both women fussed and clucked around him as dad led him through to the couch.

Don lowered himself down gratefully and sank back against the cushions. He felt hot and slightly disorientated, more than a little short of breath. This was wrong. _He was so not himself. _

"So," Millie regarded him critically. "Are you sure you should be home from the hospital? To be honest, I've seen better looking corpses. In-fact, the more I think about it, I have to say you look like crap."

"Very funny." Don attempted to glare at her. He had a feeling he didn't quite pull it off. To see Millie, when he'd been thinking of his mother. Nothing – _but nothing_ – felt right. "Thanks for the warm and fuzzy feelings. I'll be fine when I recover from the journey from hell. Back to my usual, handsome self."

"Glad to hear it." She gave a throaty chuckle, and watched as Alan headed through to the kitchen. "There's at least ten gallons of chicken soup simmering away on the stove."

"Big surprise," Don grunted, and indicated his hands. "I'm gonna have such fun with that."

"You're not looking too handy," Millie agreed with him, the gleam of a twinkle in her eye. "But take it from me, as a Mathematician, the odds on you being left unattended? Right now, they're pretty slim."

Millie didn't waste time mincing words. It was why, as a rule, Don kinda liked her. She was funny and sassy, and she called a spade a spade. There was no question she'd been good for dad. But at the moment, she was just a little too bracing. Don decided he needed some rest. But how the hell was he supposed to do that, when dad and Charlie had thrown a welcome home party?

_Too handy. _Millie's pun was _so_ not funny._ How come everyone was a joker? _The way he was feeling right at this minuteDon knew the joke was on him. To his surprise, Millie touched his brow lightly and gave him a perceptive smile. Aside from the glint of laughter, there was sympathy in the look she shot him.

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, honey, but you are most definitely hot. Not _hot_ in the sense that your father is – we're talking hot as in high temperature hot."

Don took on a pained expression. This was _way_ too much information. To hear the old man being described as hot did not conjure up good pictures in his head. And what did she mean, _not in the sense your father is? _Was Millie actually implying that dad was hotter than him? _Too much. This was just too much. _To hear the words_ hot _and_ your father _in the same sentence_ - _Don felt like he was having a relapse. The last thing an invalid should have to contemplate was the possibility of his aging father's sex-life.

In-spite of the fact he hated the hospital, it had taken on a sudden, rose-tinted glow. And, as for knowing he was feverish, well, Don could have told her that. He put it down to the long trip home. To that, and the heat and sickness. It was an unfortunate combination of all these things, coupled with slow _death by Volvo._

"Don?" Charlie sat down beside him, and gave him a glass of water. "Here, you'd better take these."

_Painkillers._ Lovely painkillers. His ticket to comatose bliss. Don took the tablets awkwardly, and popped them into his mouth. He could just about use his un-casted left hand, despite the dressings and cumbersome tube gauze. Right now, he really wished he was a southpaw, and then he wouldn't feel quite so ham-fisted. He had a sinking feeling he was going to be partially dependant on dad and Charlie for quite some time. He closed his eyes and tasted the bitterness of the pills on his tongue. _Come on, Vicodin, do your stuff._

"Millie's right, you know," said Charlie, conversationally. "You _do_ look like crap, and you are burning up there. I can feel the heat radiating off you in waves."

"Charlie," Don gave a tired sigh. "Give the _mother hen_ thing a rest, will you? It's a hot day. I've just been stuck in the back of dad's tin coffin all through the rush hour traffic. Without, I might add, the benefit of any air conditioning. There's nothing wrong with me right now, that a little sleep won't cure. Just leave me alone, all right?"

"Sure," Charlie got up from the sofa. "Okay, have it your own way. One _mother hen_ going back to the barn. Gee, Don, it's going to be such fun having you stay here for the duration."

"Look, no one hates this more than I do," Don was getting scratchy and irritable. _What with dad's sex-life and now Charlie's nagging, he was reaching the end of his tether._ "You think I like being dependant – you think I like being like this? And, by the way, let me tell you, this sarcasm thing you've developed? It doesn't sit well on you, Charlie. You should stick to the naïve genius vibe."

"Yeah?" Charlie regarded him sourly. "I wonder where I picked it up. Oh, wait, it's coming back to me – years of observing the master."

"The master, huh? You think _I'm_ the master?" Don could feel his headache returning. "Well, trust me on this one, brother. You're doing all right on your own."

_Nice. This was just what he needed._ Verbal fisticuffs with Charlie. Not exactly the greatest way to begin his stay at the house. So, Charlie was acting unCharlie-like, and dad was being undad-like. Just because his family had both become strange, it didn't mean he had to respond. There had to be a way they could all live together without resorting to physical violence. _So, okay, anything for the easy life. Besides, he was so damned tired._ Don knew he would have to compromise and let dad and Charlie fuss over him a little.

_If he wanted to survive the next couple of weeks without sending out for his_ _gun._

_Compromise_ – Don grimaced. It had never been his favourite word. It smacked of accepting second best and sacrificing important principles. Just lately, he'd been hearing it more and more, and not only thanks to FBI bureaucracy. His whole life felt like a sequence of compromise. _Like the choice was taken out of his hands. _He was passionate about the work he did, passionate about making a difference. But in order to be good at the job he loved, he had to forfeit any chance of a life.

"Okay, you made your point, Don." Charlie started turning away. "Maybe you'll feel better when you wake up. I'll _um_ . . . see you later. Amita and I have some work to finish out in the barn. Oh, sorry, did I say the barn? Of course, I meant the garage."

"Charlie," Don knew he couldn't leave it like this. "Look - I_ am_ grateful for everything. It's just that I deal with it better alone. Like – I don't know, a wounded bear.

"More like a bear with a sore head," retorted Charlie, then he threw up his hands in appeasement. "Okay, so that probably _was _sarcastic. Guilty as charged, in this case. Don - " his voice softened a little. "Dad and I both know how you get. That's why we worry about you. You know what your real trouble is?"

"No, but I'm sure you're gonna tell me," Don fought hard not to sound sarcastic himself.

Charlie gave him an old-fashioned look, and delivered a devastating blow. "You're too much like mom for your own good."

The words cut into him like the blade of a knife. Talk about slicing and dicing. Don felt as though he'd been eviscerated. As he watched Charlie walking away from him, he thought maybe his heart had been excised. _Too much like mom for his own good._ The meaning couldn't be clearer. Alan and Charlie always breathed down his neck because they thought he was going to die, that he was hell-bent on some passive course of suicide, and would ignore his health until breaking point.

_Was he?_ Did he actually live his life like that, with his finger on the self-destruct button? Don pushed his head back into the pillows. Suddenly, he felt short of air. Was he disregarding all the warning signs – the indications that something might be wrong?

_Just like mom._ Just like mom had.

Don was sure she'd suspected something was up, months, maybe years, before she'd seen a doctor. Stubborn and always too busy, she'd refused to yield any part of her life until the illness had taken a firm hold.

_Did you know – did you know all along, mom? Did you know something really bad was wrong?_

In retrospect, Don was convinced she had. She was a smart, intelligent woman. Looking back, the signs had all been there, a small evidence trail of clues. The little things, like decorating the house, or taking an island cruise with dad. The way she'd taken to calling him regularly, after years of intermittent communication. When Don thought about it now, it broke his heart. _Oh yeah, he reckoned she'd known. _

_If you push something under the mat, it doesn't really make it go away. It only succeeds in hiding it, until another day. _

And he was just like her. _God help him._ Don was forced to admit it was true. Although Charlie had spent all those years with her, he, _Don,_ was truly her son. By now, the blessed _Vicodin_ had begun to steal warmly through his veins. Don felt his head growing muzzier. Dad's chicken soup would have to wait.

**TBC**

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	7. Chapter 7

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Seven**_

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He was being pursued down a corridor, which was lined either side with closed doors. Every few yards he would waste precious seconds by pounding on them with his fists. _No answer._ No one would let him in. The menace was getting closer. He ran on, panting and desperate, but still all the doors remained barred.

_Hot._ His whole body felt so damned hot. He was flagging now, losing his energy. The corridor stretched on before him with no foreseeable end in sight. His only option was to stay ahead – to try and outrun the danger. Dear God, that was easier said than done. He pushed his tired body even harder. _Keep running. Don't ever stop_. Don knew there was no going back. There was _never_ any going backwards. That way led only to disaster. Fear rose up in him, acrid and sour. The bitter taste of bile in his throat. If he stopped, he knew he was done for. If he stopped, there would be nothing left.

_Dear God, why wouldn't they open their doors? Why wouldn't anybody let him in? _

The locked doors on either side of the corridor merely mocked him with their blank, impervious faces. In-spite of his pounding and calling out for help, they stayed resolutely shut in his face. This thing – the danger that harried him. It was so close, he could hear it breathing. His muscles flinched with anticipated terror at the touch of its hand on his back . . .

"Don – are you all right in there? Don, can you hear me, wake-up!"

"No," he twisted his body away from the shadows and tried to make himself smaller. It made no difference whatsoever. He was trapped. _There was no escape._

"Don, you're having a nightmare. Come on, Don, you'd better wake-up."

One particular shadow had cornered him. It was hovering right over him now. _It was Coulton._ Coulton had found him. He was stepping down hard on his fingers._ "Guess I shoulda known from the beginning. It was always gonna end, just you and me."_

Don summoned a desperate burst of strength and took a wild swing at his nemesis. Pain lanced through his hand like a red hot needle, burning up his arm in a rush. He awoke in a confusion of agony, dishevelled and tangled up in his sheets.

"Ow - " Charlie turned on the bedside lamp and looked down at him resentfully. He was wearing a pair of red candy-striped pyjamas, and cupping his hand over his face. "I think that was my nose you just broke."

"Charlie - Charlie is that you?" Don struggled free from the nightmare and groped for his scattered senses. He was running – no, something was after him _Had it followed him back here, to the house?_ Hot. He was so damned hot again, soaking with sweat and discomfort. His pillow bore an uncanny resemblance to a heavy bag of cement. It felt gritty and uncomfortable, as though it were full of wet sand.

"Yeah," Charlie still sounded disgruntled. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Or at least I think it is. Probably better to ask again when this concussion you just gave me wears off."

Don stared up at him in bewilderment. God, his brain really was scrambled. _Since when did Charlie have a concussion?_ Funny, Don could have sworn it was him. "The doors were all locked," he muttered. "You wouldn't - no one would let me in."

"Don?" Charlie studied him rather more carefully, and perched on the edge of the bed. "Just what doors are we talking about here? You're sounding a little weird. If I try and put my hand on your forehead, will you promise not to take a swing at me again?"

"No need for that." Don slurred his words like a drunk. _What the hell was wrong with his mouth?_ For some reason whenever he tried to talk, the right words refused to come out.

There was no need for Charlie to check his forehead, or waste time searching for a thermometer. Don knew he might as well be honest. He was literally burning with fever. _Yup – there was no doubt about it. _Didn't need a medical degree for this one. Didn't need a degree or _even_ Millie Finch to confirm he was just as hot as dad.

"I'm pretty hot - _even hotter than dad – _no matter what Millie says. Now,that really _was _some kinda nightmare." He blinked at his brother's striped pyjamas, and wondered if it was still going on. "S'okay, Charlie, go back to bed – those pyjamas are keeping me awake. No point making a molehill outta this. Just let me get a few hours decent sleep."

"Oh no, you don't. Not this time." Charlie was surprisingly firm. His fingers were cool against Don's head. "For starters, it's a mountain, making a mountain. And you're not _making_ any sense. What's Millie got to do with anything?" He paused, his face creasing into a frown. "I swear, Don, this_ time,_ you'll let me help you. I'm fed up of all this macho crap. If you _have_ got a fever, then maybe . . . my God, you're burning up."

_No kidding. _

Don felt himself drifting. He was entering the twilight zone. The lamplight was doing crazy things with his eyes as his vision began to blur around the edges. His right hand still throbbed like crazy. No wonder Charlie was complaining. He had every right to be pissed off with him, if the cast had connected with his nose.

"Don, can you hear me – are you awake?"

Another voice, another hand. _Since when had dad entered the room?_ Don made a determined effort and forced his brain back into gear. "Yeah, I am now," he said, with a sigh, and a drunken grin at Alan. "I wasn't aware it was a sleepover. Not much chance of catching any _z's_ around here, when everyone keeps yelling in my ear."

"That was the fourth time I called you." Alan regarded him levelly. "So, forgive me for being a little loud. But you see, I have this annoying tendency to worry when my eldest son is raging with fever. Especially if his eyes are wide open and he fails to respond to his name."

_Uh-oh._ Don felt his heart sink. He knew very well where this was going. If he didn't play his cards right, there was a chance he might end up back in the hospital. "Yeah, well, you were _a little loud_," He tried to pass things off lightly. "But when it comes to the loudest of all, gotta hand it to Charlie's pyjamas."

"Hey," said Charlie, indignantly. "You leave my pyjamas out of this."

Don attempted to keep the atmosphere light. "Believe me, I wish I could."

He was aware of Alan watching him closely, and his heart sank even further. It was way too hard to stay awake, let alone perform a stand-up routine. Judging by the look on his father's face, Don felt a little honesty might be in order here. The standard, _'I feel fine,'_ approach was definitely gonna fall on stony ground.

"Dad?" _Crap – that came out a hell of a lot weaker than he'd intended._ "I could really use some more painkillers now. Charlie's nose hurt my hand."

"Don't go blaming this on your brother." Alan touched his hair lightly. "His nose might be formidable, but it isn't capable of physical assault. While you were still away with the pixies just now, I stuck the digital thermometer in your ear. Charlie's nose has nothing to do with the way you're feeling right at this minute."

"Dad - " Don gave a groan of dismay. _Terrific, how had he missed that one?_ Assault with a deadly thermometer, and he hadn't even woken up. He really _was _slipping off his game to let that pass by un-noticed. "That's called taking unfair advantage. Use of a deadly weapon with intent, while a federal agent's down."

"I don't care what it's called," said Alan. "And you know what I think about Feds. But I _do know_ you have a fever, and I intend to do something about it. Charlie's going to go downstairs and get some iced water from the fridge. Then _you,_ my son, are going to drink it, while I give Bill Waldo a call."

"Wait a minute," Don struggled upwards in alarm. _Not quite as easy as it sounded._ "There's no need - I'm just due some more painkillers. It's most likely because I was sick in the car. I puked up a dose of antibiotics. Give me the drugs and leave me to sleep. I'll be a lot better come the morning."

_Would he?_

Suddenly, Don wasn't so sure. His bedroom was spinning alarmingly. If he glanced at the wardrobe and then looked quickly away, he could have sworn it had turned into an elephant. Perhaps it was a woolly mammoth – or even getting back to _Star Wars,_ a bantha. Whatever it was, it had no place in his bedroom. It was Alan's job to chase it away.

_Dear God, he was hallucinating._ The thought made him terrified. It wasn't about the fever, but the fear of losing control. Don spiralled back to a time before – _he'd been doing a lot of this lately_. Same house, same room, same bed, same him - _except he'd been nine years old._ He and Charlie had both caught the measles together, but for some reason, a luckier Charlie had escaped with a far milder dose.

Don could only remember snatches. He'd been miserable and the light hurt his eyes. Bright pink medicine that smelled like tomcats, and most of all, the scent of his mother. He knew she'd spent a lot of time reading out loud, but he could only remember the sound of her voice, not the actual books she'd read to him. His temperature was sky-high for a number of days, but one night, it had peaked dangerously. His bedroom had been full of strangers and an odd and unusual sense of fear.

Why were his mom and dad so scared? That, more than anything, had frightened him. He remembered Charlie slipping into the room and quietly holding his hand.

He'd spent a couple of days in the hospital. Not that he could recall much about them, just the red flashing light of the ambulance and the scratchy sheets on the hospital bed. Turned out his temperature had gotten so high, he'd become perilously close to developing sepsis. As a result, he had a budding pneumonia and had been a very sick little boy.

"Sure you will."

It was dad once more. Gentler this time, and more worried. Don felt a sense of deja-vu and a wave of heat swamped him again. So, there was no getting away from it. Something was wrong, he was sick. Don turned restlessly and pushed back the sheet regardless of the pain in his hands. _He just wanted to cool down some. _To get across to the open window. The inside of his bedroom was as dense as a swamp. He needed some fresh air in his lungs. The elephant still watched him impassively. _Why the hell was there an elephant in his bedroom?_ It obstructed his route to the window, but he was willing to take the risk.

"No you don't," Charlie pushed him back gently. "Come on, Don, you'd better drink this."

_Water._ It was cold – so blissfully cold. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was. Charlie held the glass up to his lips, and he gulped down several large mouthfuls. He just about managed the _Vicodin_. _Please God, let it stay in my stomach. _He was starting to feel pretty sick again. Just like he had in the Volvo. Claustrophobic and restricted, like something heavy was pressing down on his chest.

_The Prisoner of Pasadena._

Don closed his eyes and clamped down on his jaws. There was no way he was going to puke. But his stomach clearly had other ideas, and Don was forced to give into the inevitable.

_Crap. This was the last thing he wanted. He'd thought it was over and done with. A few days worth of antibiotics, some chicken soup, and mind-numbing rest. _

"Charlie - " he choked out his brother's name. "Sick. I'm gonna puke - "

"It's okay, you're okay. I've got you." Alan was back again. He held Don's head over a basin as he alternatively retched and shivered.

_It wasn't okay_. He wasn't okay _In fact, he felt like he was dying._ He couldn't move or think straight anymore. It was even getting harder to breathe. The elephant, bantha-thingy, was watching his every movement. It was about time either Charlie or Alan chased the freakin' thing away.

"You need to get rid of Jumbo, buddy," he focused his eyes on Charlie. "Must be cruel or something, to keep him stashed away up here."

"Jumbo?" Charlie was frowning, like he'd just said something weird. For Christ sakes, he wasn't the weird one. He didn't keep a pachyderm in the bedroom.

"You haven't asked about Jumbo for years," Alan wiped his brow with something cool. "I think he's still up in the loft somewhere. Even when you joined the FBI your mother refused to throw him out."

"Ah, Jumbo, Don's ratty, old elephant. The grey felt thing with the wonky eyes."

"Not wonky," Don struggled to get the words out. Just as a matter of interest, why _was _his room so stuffy? The window was wide open, letting in all the night air. "Character – he had character. Had an eye either side of head to see all the danger around him. Besides - " he tried to point it out. _Why wasn't anyone helping him?_ "Not Jumbo. _Not that Jumbo._ The big thing, standing over there."

"There's no danger here, Don." Alan's voice was calm. "You're quite safe, there's no need to worry. Bill Waldo will be here in a minute or two, and then we can get you sorted out."

Don didn't remember much after that. Bits and confusing pieces. Chaotic fragments of lucidity which hazed in and out of his dreams. He was back up on the gantry – _he was falling_ - spinning down to the concrete below. Then he ran for his life down a corridor, being chased by a giant elephant. Eventually, the elephant morphed into Coulton, except he had wonky eyes.

The Beatles provided the background music. He was falling to _'Lucy in the Sky.'_ A garish, kaleidoscope of sound, which whirled him round and round like a pinwheel.

Either dad or Charlie held him as he twitched and muttered with fever. There was the transient feel of something cool against his scorching skin. The steel band was the worse thing. The one which had clamped around his chest. It tightened and squeezed the air from his lungs every time he tried to take a breath.

It was just like when he was nine years old. He could sense _her._ Feel her close to him again. The soothing caress of her hand on his brow. The softness of her touch against his skin.

"_Mom?"_ He thought he might have called out to her once. She didn't answer. _Why wouldn't she answer?_ He opened his eyes in a panic, but it was too late. She had gone.

**TBC**

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Eight**_

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"So," Megan sat down beside the bed and shook her head at him. "Bacterial Pneumonia, huh? Just remind me for a minute here, what was it you said back at the hospital when Alan wanted you to wear that fleece?"

"I'm _so_ not in the mood for _I told you so_," Don scowled at his latest visitor. The effect would have been more satisfactory, if he didn't sound like a strangled cat. "Besides, it's got nothing to do with that – don't you go reminding him. I happened to pick up some infection. Most likely, through the cuts on my hands."

_Uh-oh._ Don reached for the Kleenex as his chest tightened into a spasm. He leaned forward and hugged his rib-cage in anticipation of pain_. Not good. This was so not good._ No wonder, he felt so damned weak. Each bout of hacking seemed to go on without end, once he started, it took forever to stop. He sounded – _wait, might as well be honest_ – he _felt_ about a hundred years old. He coughed and wheezed like a little old man with a serious nicotine habit. If he continued like this for much longer, he was going to give himself a hernia.

Part of him wanted Megan to leave. _Gee – this must look so attractive._ Especially the part where he spat out the mucus which obstructed the back of his throat. "There's no need to stay and watch this. You can leave if you want to," he croaked.

"As gracious and tactful as ever," she winced a little, as she watched him cough, but kept her voice determinedly cheerful. "Ah, _there's_ the Don Eppes we know and love. That's no way to treat your visitors; it _must_ mean you're feeling better." She waited for a couple of minutes, and then she couldn't stand it any longer. Megan got up out of her chair and poured him a glass of water. "Here," she perched on the edge of the bed, and placed it into his good hand.

"Thanks." Don took it with gratitude. "Sorry you had to see this."

"I've seen worse," her expression was wry. "I think I might just about survive."

_Glad someone will._ There it was again, the weird sense of doom which was dogging him. As though there was a devil on his shoulder just like in the old cartoons. _Looney Tunes - yeah, that was right_. It just about summed him up perfectly. Ever since he'd moved back to Los Angeles, he'd been waiting for something like this. _An Acme safe to flatten his head – to be crushed flat by a runaway boulder._ For someone to drop a piano on him or push him over the side of a cliff. _Or perhaps off the edge of a gantry?_ It all depended on the interpretation. Whichever way around you looked at it, Don knew he'd been heading for a fall.

He closed his eyes and waited as the coughing jag finally eased off. It took another minute or two before he could ease back on the pillows. "It's fine. It's done now. It sounds worse than it is." _Who the hell was he kidding?_ Don realised Megan had been rubbing his back. _Must be losing it,_ he hadn't even noticed.

"Okay, tough guy," she regarded him steadily. "Although, you don't look very tough at this minute. Don, I have to ask you, it's killing me. What's that moth-eaten thing under your pillow?"

Don raised his eyebrows at her. _What the hell – moth-eaten thing?_ It was a different way of describing it, but he was glad of the change of subject.

_Crap._ Don blushed and groped awkwardly behind him, she could only be referring to one thing. Charlie had been in here earlier, so he had a pretty good idea what she'd seen. It would be just like his dearly beloved brother to set him up in front of Megan. Sure enough, his worse fears were recognised. _Talk about Revenge of the Nerd_. He pulled Jumbo out from under the sheets. _Man, his tough-guy image was screwed. _

"Meet Jumbo," he balanced the shabby old elephant in his lap, and looked up at her a little defensively. "He was mine, like way back, when we were kids. He's Charlie's idea of a joke."

"Aw, Don, he's so sweet," Megan picked him up with care, and shot Don a wicked glance. "You know, he reminds me of his owner, he looks like he's seen better days. Still, he has a certain, dog-eared charm, in a ragged, scuffed kind of way. I always knew you were a big softie at heart."

"Softie, huh?" Don did his best to glare at her, but at the moment, he couldn't do basilisk. He couldn't _do much_ of anything, except lie here and twiddle his thumbs. _So, okay - he couldn't even do that._ One thumb was encased in a cast. The other was swaddled in tube-gauze and shaped like a chorizo sausage. "Go ahead, laugh it up, Agent Reeves. Just you try and hold on to that thought, when I get eventually get back on duty."

_Yeah, right_. _When I get back on duty._ Sometime, in the dim, distant future. If he could have, Don would have snorted. _At the moment, it was as much as he could manage to walk from his bed to the bathroom. _The way his luck was going lately - he might just scrape into the office again before it was time to draw his pension. Don leaned back against his pillows with a raspy sigh. He was still so tired and bone-weary. It was good to be back home at last, good to breathe without needing oxygen, but he was still half afraid he might jinx it. That somehow, he might be tempting fate. After _yet another_ week in the hospital, he'd better cross his fingers. _Just in case._

_Yeah, right, cross his fingers._ Don made a face. _Like that was gonna happen anytime soon._ He was getting as bad as his tormentors. _What the heck, if you can't beat them, join them._ Despite the fact he'd had a dig at Charlie, Don was pretty good at sarcasm too. By the time this little episode was over, they would all be speaking in one-liners. _By the time this little episode was over_ – it seemed doomed to drag on and on.

His first abortive night at home had been an unmitigated disaster. He couldn't remember much about it, which was probably not a bad thing. _Corridors and Coulton, Charlie's candy-striped pyjamas._ Being chased by a giant elephant – _boy, he must have really been off his head._ Don sneaked a furtive glance at the wardrobe. It remained stolidly and impassively wooden. Tall, and comfortably wardrobe-shaped. Reassuringly, un-elephantine.

Doctor Waldo had taken one look at him, and told Alan to call for an ambulance. The fever turned out to be pneumonia, which kind of explained a few things. Like why he had been feeling so terrible, or the constricting iron band around his chest. In a way, it was reassuring to know he hadn't been losing it entirely. Ever since this whole mess had started, he'd been a few fries short of a happy meal.

Things had happened at the speed of light after that. Don had become very ill, very quickly. His fever had climbed even higher as his breathing deteriorated. He recalled the sound of the sirens and the flashing of the red lights. But most of all, and more distressingly, was the indelible image of dad's face. Alan had looked pretty terrible. Drawn and grey with worry. If Don had been capable of speech back then, he would have joked about them taking the wrong patient. In reality, it wasn't so funny. Talk about death-bed humour. Don knew he had sailed pretty close to the wind. It could have easily turned out that way.

There were a lot of _ifs_ and _ands_ here. Yet again, Don knew he'd been lucky. If there _was_ an angel looking out for him, then boy, it must be exhausted. Don hoped it was on good overtime. It had really been earning its wings. _If _Charlie hadn't wanted the bathroom and happened to overhear him rambling. _And_ Alan hadn't ridden rough-shod over him and insisted on calling Bill Waldo . . .

_The outcome might have been very different. _

Don was candid enough to admit it. This was one of the times in his life, when he was extra appreciative of his family. Okay, Charlie could be a pain in the ass, and Alan's fussing and nagging drove him crazy. But the one thing he never doubted was that both of them were driven by love. _Man-love, big, tough, husky love _- Don amended the thought hastily. Since mom died, they hadn't gone in for the hugging thing much, or indulged in the _touchy-feely_ stuff.

He suddenly realised he missed it. The physical comfort of a hug. The loving consolation and bodily warmth of another human touch. Sex had nothing to do with it – it wasn't about sex at all. It was about knowing someone was on your side, that they cared when you walked out the door. Dad had Millie and Don was glad of it. And Charlie – well, Charlie sort of had Amita. Or at least as far as he knew. Charlie wasn't exactly forth-coming when it came to his private life. After years of pussy-footing around things, it seemed his little brother finally had his mojo on.

His own love life was less than spectacular. Okay, he had the physical thing going. That, at least, had never been a problem, he had always been able to score. There were a number of women he could call on, women not dissimilar to himself, discreet and in need of some company, not in the market for a long-term relationship. It was fine, if the job was his _raison d'etre, _if it was all he wanted to be. But lately, he'd been feeling rudderless. Tired and disillusioned with it all.

The FBI was not conducive to the nourishment of long-term relationships. He wasn't much of a long-term bet. Don was the first to admit it. The odds were stacked against him. His prospects always felt pretty dim_. What gave him the right to commit to a woman, when crap like this could happen?_ At the moment, he had nothing valid to offer, except a fairly reasonable pension. It was hard to make plans for the future, with a metaphorical time-bomb ticking under you. Difficult to lay bare his feelings and expose himself to potential hurt.

"Don?" Megan tucked Jumbo back in beside him, and placed her hand on his shoulder. "You okay there, Bossman? You look like you're a million miles away."

"Yeah." Don was aware he sounded curt, but he was filled with a sense of melancholy. It was hard to kick the cloud of depression which had settled over him like a veil. He looked up at her frankly. "You ever wonder why we do this job – I mean really, what our genuine motives are?"

"Wow," she gave him a quizzical smile, but he felt her hand tense on his bicep. "What brought this on, all of a sudden? That's the trouble with being bed-ridden. It can give you too much time to think."

"Seriously," Don picked at the edge of his sheet. It was too late to recant the question. Besides, Megan was always uncannily perceptive. He was eager to hear her reply. "Take our team, for example. There's David, always out to prove himself - to escape from the hellhole he grew up in. And then Colby, seeking refuge, in like, the physical side of things. He's clearly trying to out-run his ghosts by building up his muscles."

"And I thought I was the profiler." Megan regarded him steadily, a light frown creasing her forehead. "Well, go on. Don't let me stop you there. You left out a couple of people."

_Yeah, he had. This was going to be awkward._ He looked at her with a hint of apology. Even though they were friends and as such, pretty close, they each had some sacrosanct places. The kind of places never talked about much. Maybe touched on, but never aired openly. _Oh, well, in for a penny_. Don wished he'd kept his big mouth shut.

"Um – probably better if I leave it there," the contrition in his voice was genuine. He thought way too much of Megan to go blundering around in her pain.

"It's all right," she said, cautiously. "I'll let you know when to stop."

_Dear God, why had he started this? Wasn't the pneumonia enough for him?_

Talk about wanting to beat himself up - he'd never been into _S and M_ before Don sought hard for the words he wanted, without stripping himself too bare. "I guess my motivation's pretty obvious, but it wasn't_ just_ about Charlie. There was always, like, a sense of right and wrong, part of me that got off on that. I'm saying something changed along the way. Turns out, it was more about me."

_Whew._ Don was glad that was over. He felt like he'd rubbed salt in his wounds. Apparently, there was nothing people liked more, than talking about themselves. _Yeah, right._ Don shuddered risibly. To him, it was one hundred kinds of hell.

"What you're talking about - it's called justice." Megan's eyes flickered away from him. "It's a pretty powerful word. Whatever our motives may be in the beginning, its justice we seek in the end."

_Justice._ She was right, Don realised. _As she so often was._ She had unerringly touched the heart of him, gotten to the place within his soul. He had struggled with the concept of right and wrong ever since he was a child. With regard to his role within his family, and his position in society as a whole. Always the big brother, always Charlie's protector, even when he'd longed to kick his ass. It was the reason he'd become the man he was, and a big part of why he'd joined the FBI.

Don reached over and touched the back of her hand. "Know what, Special Agent Reeves, I always suspected you were a witch."

"So, my oldest son thinks you are a witch?" His timing was as impeccable as ever. Alan came through the bedroom door with a tray of tea and meds in his hands. "In that case, I wish you'd cast a spell, and turn him into a more cooperative patient. Better still, can you make him a child again – I think that might make things a whole lot easier. You may find this kind of hard to believe, but on the whole, he was a good little boy."

"Really?" Megan twinkled up at Alan, and played along with him nicely. "You're right, on the whole, I _do_ find it hard to believe, but I suppose he has his moments now and then." She gave Don's shoulder a squeeze of support. "We have him trained pretty well."

"You do?" Alan feigned surprise, and gave Don an ominous smile. "I'm pleased to hear it. In-fact, I'd love to know your secrets. You'll have to give me some tips."

_Nice._ Don rolled his eyes at them. This was_ so_ not fair. Being ganged-up on by his team _and_ his family, and him just a poor wounded hero. There was no escape for the wicked – in truth, there was no escape at all. Well, at least not for him, and not for a long time. He was kind of accepting it now. And it was good to see his father smile again. Even if it _was_ at his expense. In the middle of all his own problems, he'd been more than a little worried about Alan.

Oh, sure, dad had been in super-nurse mode, but there was something vaguely distant about him. He was way off his usual Jewish poppa vibe - guarded and almost detached. Don felt his rib-cage tense again. _Terrific – this was just what he needed. Ding – ding – seconds out - another round of torture. The hitch had begun in the back of his throat - he was about to turn his lungs inside out. _He reached across for the water in a futile effort to pre-empt it, but once he'd started coughing, it was impossible to stop. The iron band was tightening around his chest once more. He should be wise to it by now.

Five minutes later, he felt racked and exhausted. His ribcage was aching and sore. And just to add insult to injury, the violent reflex aggravated his concussion. Don swore there was someone inside his skull thumping away with a jack-hammer. _Either that, or an army of Dutchmen were practising the clog-dance in his head. _

_Finished._ At long last, finished. Just for the moment, it was over. Don lay back, worn out, against the pillows. This was tough. He was forced to admit it. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, he felt so depressed and ill. At some stage during this latest attack, Megan had left the room. As much as he appreciated her company, Don was more than relieved to see her go_. No one should have to see him like this. _Feeble and helplessly pathetic. He hated it, it scared him to feel this way – frail and stripped of his dignity.

_Dear God, this must have been hell for you. How you must have hated this, mom. _

Alan sat beside him in silence, rubbing comforting circles on his arm. In the wider scheme of things, the silence alone was very strange. Dad wasn't usually so reticent. _Reticent_ just didn't apply to dad, the two concepts were contradictory. _Like humble relating to Charlie, or chatty referring to Don. _Don scrutinised Alan extra closely. He was growing more alarmed by the second. Judging by the distant look on his face, his father was a million miles away.

"Dad?"

Don couldn't stand it any longer. This was _so _out of character. By now, Alan should be fussing like an old mother hen, and forcing his meds down his throat. He should be bathing his brow, and straightening his covers, whether Don liked it or not. _That_ was the Alan he knew and loved. _That was who dad was._ Not this quiet, grey-faced stranger, who found it so hard to talk. Don knew he was being paradoxical here. He hated it when dad and Charlie worried. It was more than a tad hypocritical to expect it when it was gone. It wasn't the fussing and fretting he missed, as much as the familiarity. So, okay, it drove him like nutzoid, but it was how this family happened to function. More than a little oddball and weirdly comforting in its own way.

"Dad," he repeated it softly. "Dad – talk to me. Are you okay?"

"Take your meds, Donnie." Alan got to his feet. He looked old and immeasurably weary. "I'd better go say goodbye to Megan. And afterwards, try and get some sleep. All that coughing's clearly taken it out of you."

"Dad, wait - " Don gave it another shot, _but too late_ – Alan had gone.

**TBC**

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Nine**_

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So okay, this wasn't such a good idea, but it hadn't seemed too whack-job when he'd started. In-fact, it had seemed eminently sensible when conceived in the comfort of his bed. Charlie was tired, and dad was acting strange, and he was fed up of being a nuisance. Don leaned up against the landing wall and struggled to catch his breath.

_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._

_Yeah, right – if you were a navel-gazing philosopher_. It wasn't exactly a thousand miles to get from his bedroom to the bathroom, but at this point in time, Don was willing to bet, Lao Tzu had never suffered from pneumonia.

He slid down the wall and sat on the floor. _A minute – he just needed a minute. _Sixty seconds for his lungs to start working again before he could crawl back to bed. _Literally._ Better not let dad or Charlie find him out here like this. Dad would have apoplexy and Charlie would give birth to a cow. The thought of Alan spurred him to action. There was no way he could stay out here on the landing. Don managed to get to his knees again with the speed of an asthmatic snail.

_Wrong move._ He just missed pitching forward as everything started to spin. He'd underestimated how weak he was, either that, or he'd been sucked into a vortex. _Whoa, hold your horses, Dorothy; you're not in Kansas yet._ Don grabbed hold of the balustrade and broke out into a cold sweat. _It really was quite comfortable here_. Maybe he'd stay _another_ minute. It turned out to be his undoing as _another minute_ turned into ten.

By now, Don was getting uncomfortably cold. His teeth had started to chatter. He sat there and reflected on the irony. _Right now, he could really do with dad's fleece. _It was time to get his ass in gear. Time to pull himself back together. He really had to start fighting this. _Since when had he been such a wuss?_

_Since the day he nearly fell off a gantry._ That was the simple answer. In truth, it was rather more complicated. _In truth, the whole thing sucked._ It was as though Coulton had acted as a catalyst and opened up a big can of worms. _God damn those pesky little wrigglers._ As hard as he tried, Don couldn't catch them again. Couldn't force them back into the can. He was too busy feeling miserable to hear the slight click of a door handle, too occupied with the logistics of moving again to realise his plight just got worse.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Alan did not seem happy. That was a mild understatement. In fact, he sounded downright pissed.

Don opened his eyes with a startled jerk. _Crap - his ass was so busted._ This would teach him to take his life in his hands and go to the bathroom by himself. For a moment, Don considered reminding his father he was a bona fide, fully-grown adult. _Yup _- he considered it for a moment – in a crazy rush of blood to the head. _Nope _– he chickened out in the end – he might be crazy but he wasn't suicidal. Judging by the tone of Alan's voice, discretion was the better part of valour. There was no use arguing about it. Don knew he was on a hiding to nothing. If he wanted to sit on the landing all night, he could. Or, at least, in theory. _The reality was very different._ There were rules which must be obeyed.

_There was something about being back in this house which made him feel like a naughty schoolboy._

Don took a close look at Alan's face. It was rigid and shuttered with anger. _Nope - there was no point arguing. No damn point at all._ Don had seen this look before. It would be better to humour his father. He needed to get back into bed. He was simply too cold and tired.

"Leave it, dad. I was on my way back to bed. I just got a little light-headed. I didn't want to wake you and Charlie, so I sat down for a minute to catch my breath."

"So, you thought you'd sit out on the landing all night with only the pneumonia for company? What – nearly dying twice isn't enough for you? You thought you'd try for the hat-trick?"

"_What the hell_ – look, dad, what's going on?"

"I find you out here, in the middle of the night, and you ask me what's going on. Sometimes, I really wonder. I really wonder about you, Don."

Well, if that didn't just take the cake. If it wasn't the absolute limit. Don stared up at him incredulously, now he _knew _something was wrong with his father. Ever since the first car journey home, it had all been way out of synch. Alan was acting like a total jerk, and yet he had the stones to wonder about him?

"_You wonder about me?"_ Don repeated. He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. "Let me tell you, _I've_ been wondering about _you_. You won't look at me – you can _barely_ even talk to me. You mind telling me what it is I've done?"

_Just great._ He was coughing his guts up again. He leaned forward and hung onto his ribs. That little _spiel_ really took it out of him. More than he'd care to admit. Don concentrated and closed his eyes. He tried to ignore his father. This was all very well in theory, but when Alan was stood glowering down at him, it was easier said than done. _Dear God, he was pathetic._ He felt so damned weak. _It was tempting – so tempting to give it all up – to curl up and lie here forever. _He was whirling, spinning out into the cosmos again, with his old friend, _Lucy in the Sky_.

_John, Paul, George and Ringo._ His whole life was a series of reoccurring themes. He half expected to see the elephant next, come trumpeting along the landing. Don felt like he was losing it. He was hanging off the gantry once more. _Not again - _Don grit his teeth - I am so _not_ doing this again. Talk about becoming predictable – he was passing out for a past time. Fainting off like some vapid heroine in a _Harlequin_ bodice ripper.

_This was not him._ It was not who he was. He was an athlete – at the top of his game. He could still run a hundred in just over thirteen seconds and lift the stack at the gym. Don felt another rush of misery. He was fed-up of his weak-assed body. He was not gonna give dad the satisfaction of showing how wiped out he felt.

Somehow, Don made it to his feet by himself. He'd be damned if he'd take this crap sitting down. And besides - _it was hard not to notice_ - Alan hadn't offered him a hand. Whether he would have taken it was moot. Perhaps not, under the circumstances. He'd never seen dad like this before, so tense and wired with strain.

"So, I won't even talk to you?" Alan _did_ put out a steadying hand, and then pulled it back as if scalded. "Well, you should be so lucky. I would imagine this must come as a relief to you - we both know how much you love being here, Don. You make it patently clear."

_Whoa, pops, this can't be good for the blood pressure._ Alan looked like he was about to explode. Don could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. _Talk about Looney Tunes again._

"Dad - "

"No, Don. You make it crystal clear, in-fact, just how much you appreciate me and Charlie. Ever since you came home the first time, it's as though you're here under duress."

Don leaned against the wall for a second, and tried to marshal some strength. If dad was indeed, about to explode, then maybe he could leech some of the escaping energy. He felt less like a skyrocket and more of a damp squib. _Fine – just fine. _He was so not in the mood, but if this was the way dad wanted to play it, then he'd just have to go with the flow. Don clutched an arm across his chest and stumbled along the landing. Whatever this weirdness was all about, it was time to go somewhere less public. Time to remove it from Charlie's earshot and take it back to his room.

He just about made it through the door before his treacherous legs gave out on him. _Here we go - why must it always come back to this?_ Don knew he was falling again.

"Dad - "

The cry for help was instinctive. He hit the wooden floor hard. The fall jolted up through every bone in his body, as he put out his useless hands to save himself. For a moment, he sat there - too stunned to move - too bruised and shocked to even think. Something surged and gave way inside him, like the pressure cap being blown off a well.

_What the hell_ - he was crying. _Dear, God, was he actually crying?_

_Nah – it wasn't possible. Was it?_ He didn't ever –_ he couldn't cry_. Wouldn't countenance such self-indulgence. Inevitably, he started to cough. It felt as though he was being strangled. Tears ran down the back of his throat. If he didn't stop soon, he would choke. Don leant against the side of his bed. He couldn't move for a million dollars. He alternatively hated and despised himself for being swept away by the storm.

"Oh, my God." Alan sounded horrified.

Horrified was an understatement. _So, big deal, his father was horrified. _Don forced a shaky laugh. On an emotional scale of one to ten, he could not be as _horrified_ as Don was. It was as though he was merely an observer, looking down from some lofty height. He felt spacey and detached from reality, like a spectator watching a montage. He didn't do this. _It was not who he was._ Not who he allowed himself to be – _ever._

"Oh, Donnie, my son. My poor, poor, boy."

There were arms around him. It was Alan, of course. Don was now thoroughly confused. _Yup – definitely must be hallucinating again._ Something was way off key. Without doubt, dad's behaviour was strange. He was not acting in a sane or rational manner. Perhaps he'd become schizophrenic? He was too old for the male menopause, and besides, he had Millie for that.

Don tensed for the briefest of seconds. _Loss of control – his worse nightmare come true._ He was so gonna regret this in the morning, but for the moment, he appeared to be paralysed. He couldn't move, even if he wanted to. He was stuck here in the curve of the space/time continuum, trapped on his bedroom floor.

_Danger, danger – Will Robinson. _

_Uh-oh, he was thinking like Charlie._ Wandering off into the fourth dimension. There was no point cruising off into non-linear time, he had too many problems right here.

The bout of coughing lasted forever. Don hung onto Alan for grim death. He seemed to be doing a lot of this lately. Hanging on by his fingertips. _Oh, God, here come the metaphors._ Maybe he should take up writing? It had to be good for something when your whole life had turned into a cliché. He could churn out a pulp-fiction bestseller - the kind you bought in airport departure lounges - and then sell the movie rights to Hollywood for cool millions in the bank. There was only one major problem he could think of - w_hich actor was sexy enough to play him?_

On second thoughts, a burned-out FBI agent . . .

_Yeah, right._ Like_ that_ hadn't been done before.

_Burned-out._ Where the hell did that come from? More importantly, was it true? So okay, he wasn't exactly at his best right now, but could he really admit to burned-out?

It was literal. _Yup – that was it._ It was all to do with the fever. Because of the way he felt physically. Stripped right down to the bone. He was sick and injured. He was bound to be frail. _Frail?_ He felt almost ethereal. Red raw, as though he was nascent. All his nerve endings open and exposed.

Don knew he wasn't going anywhere for now. He couldn't move even if he wanted to. And besides, he was safe here for the moment. Don sagged against his father's chest. _His head was not a good place to be in._ He'd said those words or similar to Charlie once, and then regretted them immediately afterwards. Another freakin' sign of weakness. He'd been tired and had revealed just a little too much, and for Charlie – he always had to be strong. He had to be strong for everyone. For his family, his team and himself. _If he wasn't, it didn't bear thinking about. _The whole world might implode like dark matter.

"I'm so sorry."

Alan was talking again. His voice sounded worse than Don's. It took less than a micro-second for Don to realise dad was crying too. He almost smiled at that point. _Almost, but not quite._ For some reason, he couldn't make his facial muscles stretch into anything resembling a grin. It did have a strengthening effect on him though. It made him pull himself together.

_Couldn't afford to have a nervous breakdown when one of his family was in need. Couldn't be pathetic or self-seeking enough to put his requirements first. _

_Wasn't that the way things had to be?_ Mom had explained it to him. Charlie was unique and special – he had an extraordinary gift. The family had to make sacrifices to help Charlie realise his potential. That was the way things had to be. _Don understood, didn't he?_

_Yeah, Don understood._ Charlie was freakin' special. And if it _wasn't _the way things had to be, it was sometimes the way things seemed. Like why he felt so guilty right now, for instance. For actually daring to be weak.

"I'm okay." He managed to get the two words out. They sounded pretty jaded. As frayed around the edges as he was. So well-worn they almost expired. He'd uttered them so many times in the past, they were sum and substance of who he was. Of course, if he had the option, he far preferred to use _fine_. _Fine_ implied he was doing even better than _okay _– but at the moment, it would be a downright lie.

"No. No, you're not. Don't say it. For God's sake, Don, will you quit acting tough."

_Was Alan angry with him again?_ Don thought he preferred it in the scheme of things. A little anger was easier to cope with. It was better than watching dad cry. "What do you want me to say, dad?"

_What the hell,_ the words were out before he could stop them. _What in the Sam Hill was he thinking? _For some very peculiar reason, his mouth was acting independently of his brain. He should have taken the easy option, and not answered dad back at all. _Anything for the quiet life._ He should have got back into bed. This was all Doctor Bradford's fault, Don knew it with bitter certainty. He knew he should have listened when he told himself – _no good would come of going to see a shrink._

Rugs and carpets – cans and worms. Metaphors and similes. Words and memories going round in his head. Don felt like his brain was in melt-down. _You can hide things, but they won't go away. You can suppress things rather than face them._ The worms keep on wriggling inside the can, until one day, the lid bursts open.

There was a moment of silence between them, and then Don repeated the question. His voice was anguished and filled with weary desperation as he looked up into Alan's face. "So, come on, dad, what do you _want_ me to say? _What do you want me to tell you?"_

**TBC**

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Ten**_

****

****

"_So, come on, dad, what do you want me to say?_ _What do you want me to tell you?"_

The second Don uttered the fateful words, he wished there was some way of retracting them. A gaping hole had opened up in front of him and he was teetering precariously on the brink. Talk about dense – he was so stupid. _He wasn't up to this conversation. _Of all the dumb-assed things to do. He needed a smack upside the head.

_Gee – way to go, Special Agent Eppes – it's 2am in the morning_. _On a perfect scale of one to ten, could your timing be any better? Why don't you open the closet door and go rattle all the skeletons? Better still, you could really rock the boat and have a serious heart-to-heart with dad. _

"No, wait, dad. I'm sorry." Don back-tracked, wildly. "I don't know why I said that. Just forget I opened my big mouth. Do you think you could give me a hand here, I need to get back into bed."

Alan was staring at him in shock. Like a rabbit caught in the head-lights. There was grief in his eyes and something else. A look Don hadn't seen since mom died. _Oh, God_ – Don felt his gut contract. This was wrong, he shouldn't have pushed it. He should have kept his mouth shut and let dad rant and rage. Anything – _but anything_ was better than this. He wasn't used to dad being so silent. It was against the natural order of the universe, in opposition to the laws of time and space.

"The truth. I want you to tell me the truth."

Alan spoke, but it didn't sound like him. Don shivered, and not just with cold. This was surreal – almost existential. Kierkegaard would have a field day. _Nope - it didn't sound like dad at all_. His father sounded old and defeated. And as for the truth? It was the million dollar question. He wasn't even sure of it himself. His emotions were scattered and spread all over the place, as though he'd actually fallen from a height. What on earth could he say to dad without sounding accusatory? Could he truly express how he felt without breaking his father's heart?

_Not now._ Not at 2am in the morning. The silent grey hours between night and day when everyone's biorhythms were low. After all, if dad slung him out into the street on his ass, he didn't have anywhere else to go._ Duh_ - not that dad or Charlie would dream of throwing him out - it was a complete no-brainer. They were far more likely to lock him up and throw away the key to keep him in.

Don knew he was being frivolous. He was being facetious - _again._ It was becoming a really bad habit. He was getting so glib and flippant. Wisecracking his way through the slightest hint of pain, on the face of it, and even in his head. When it came to being self-defensive, it was an effective way of masking his feelings, a convenient escape route from the trauma and pain, and last and not least, from his own thoughts.

"How about we take a rain-check on this?" There was nothing wrong with being optimistic. With any luck, Alan was regretting this too, and wishing he'd gone back to bed.

"Don't." Alan didn't show any signs of moving. He shifted his legs around more comfortably and sat back against the side of the bed. "Never go to bed on a row, as your mother was always so fond of saying. Don't try and duck out of this now, Don. There are some things which need to be said."

_Great – this was just fucking great,_ Don couldn't help sighing. It looked like they were set for a camp-out. If he'd known, he'd have brought along his guitar, and practised singing Kumbaya. _Could anything be better than a night spent on the floor, airing scary dirty laundry with dad? _

_Whoops – he was off with the flippancy again._ Must be the Looney Tunes devil. It had sure picked its moment to perch on his shoulder – darn thing must be having a ball. "Dad - " Don rallied and tried again. "So, okay, there are some things that need saying, but I don't think I'm ready to do this like now. It really isn't the right time or place."

"That's part of the problem." Alan looked at him, sadly. "There's never a right time or place. You're always too tired or too busy. Either that, or just too damned defensive."

"Terrific," Don tried to make light of things. "So you decide to pick on me now? Take about taking advantage and kicking a man when he's down."

"Don - " _Uh-oh, the anger was back_. "It's not a case of taking advantage. I – _we've_ lived with certain things for far too long. It's about time we got them out in the open."

"We have? And what things would those be?" Don was getting a tad cross himself. "You know - sometimes it's better to leave it alone. Kinda like picking at a scab. You keep picking away at the surface until the wound gets infected or it starts to bleed. Better just to ignore it. Leave it to heal naturally."

Wishful thinking, and he knew it. He could tell by the look on Alan's face. He no longer had any say in this, the bit was firmly between dad's teeth. _Hell, it wasn't as if he could go anywhere._ He was what you might call a captive audience. Doomed to spend a night on the hard wooden floor, while Alan chased the bugs out of his ass.

Don remembered how his father had looked earlier, when he'd escorted Megan downstairs. A worn out, grey-faced stranger, he had almost failed to recognise as dad. The image was not a good one. Don felt his gut constrict. It had come with a flash of cold precognition which his mind refused to acknowledge. Alan was hardly a geriatric - he most certainly wasn't on his last legs. But he was no spring chicken either, how ever indestructible he seemed. Don would not – _could not_ - be the cause of something bad happening to dad. Not now, after all that had happened. _He didn't think his own heart could take it. _

_So, okay, may as well suck it up._ Better hear what dad had to say. If it meant things would return to some kind of normality, he was ready to bite the bullet. _Some kind of normality,_ being the operative words. _Hey – he would even try to be a good patient. _He'd be a good little prisoner and refrain from rattling his chains. Well, all right, he'd only rattle them some of the time. How was that for some form of compromise? _The_ _Prisoner of Pasadena_ might earn time-off for good behaviour.

"Do you remember back when that painting was stolen – you know, the Pisarro?"

"Yeah, of course. Why?" _Talk about off on a tangent. Where the hell was dad going with this?_

"You asked me some questions about our family and what happened to those who stayed behind in Europe? You were going to try – God rest their souls - to find out where they might have ended up."

Don nodded slowly. "I remember. I haven't given up on that yet. There's someone I know in Israel. A contact – well, more of an old friend. He was going to pull a few strings for me and see if there was anything in the archives at Yad Vashem."

"So, you have a contact in Israel?" Alan looked at him sharply. "Dare I ask where the two of you met, or is that information only available on a strictly need to know basis?"

Don thought about it for a second. A second was all it took. If Alan knew the truth about _that_ little encounter, it would probably scar him for life. Classified information was exactly that. _Nope – there were some things he couldn't breathe a word about. _Like a couple of months he'd spent on assignment just over three years ago. Ostensibly, he'd spent the winter in Washington, even phoning home from time to time. And although there'd been snow drifts in the capital back then, it hadn't occurred to anyone to ask how or where he'd managed to acquire a tan.

"Don't bother answering that one. I don't think I even want to know." Alan heaved a sigh and shook his head. "I just wish you'd brought me home a t-shirt, and I hope you said a prayer at the wall."

Don had to smile a little at this, and some of the tension was broken. Trust dad to look at it that way. The old man really wasn't all that bad. He _had_, in-fact, said a prayer at the wall, during the period he'd spent in Jerusalem. In one of the few spells of free time he'd enjoyed during those fast and furious months. Which reminded him – he owed a few long-distance phone-calls. He'd met some good people during his time over there, and aside from the whole tracing the family thing, he'd been kinda remiss about keeping in touch with a couple of old compadres.

"You were saying about the family thing?" Don steered the conversation back to its point of origin. It _really_ wouldn't do Alan any good to hear what he'd been doing out in the Middle East. It nearly hadn't done _him_ any good either, but that was another story entirely.

"It made me think about all those poor souls, God bless them. All those families so cruelly torn apart. I've been doing lots of reading lately – ever since the Pisarro case. Most of it is terrible – _unbearable_ - but I feel like I owe them a debt. I guess you could call it the debt of remembrance – or better still, the debt of never forgetting. You know, of course, most of the survivors were adults? The children died of starvation or disease, either that, or they were murdered first."

"Dad - " Don paused, uncertainly. At last, he thought he knew where this was going. In typical Eppes family fashion, Alan had chosen the most tortuous route to get where he eventually ended up. "I think I know where you're headed with this, and if I'm right, then we've been over this before."

Apparently, his father was ignoring him. Either that or he'd suddenly gone deaf. Alan had a faraway look in his eyes as he continued speaking softly. "It's been bugging me, that old saying. I can't remember who said it, but it's been on my mind the last couple of weeks. _No parent should outlive their child._ It must be fate's cruellest trick."

Here it was then. Out in the open at last. Dad had actually come out and said it. In a drawn-out, convoluted, roundabout way, he'd lain his cards down so Don could see them. _How the hell was he going to answer this - what could he say to make things better? _There was nothing – _nothing_ he could think of or say which might begin to sugar-coat the pill. What he did for a living was dangerous - _fact._ There was no dainty way of dancing around it. In his own way, he was out there on the front-line every day. Each assignment brought its own type of risk.

Over the course of the last few years, he'd made a sizeable share of enemies. Men like Wayne Coulton and others, more dangerous. Men with power and lethal connections. Some of them had vowed to kill him. A couple had even tried. He'd been threatened and targeted, beaten and shot at. And some of those shots had not missed.

Don sighed with deep frustration. _Way to go._ Dad had trapped him, backed him into a corner. There was no _get-out-of-jail card_ on this one. He was stuck at a loss for words. _Yeah, dad, you're right, get over it._ I don't exactly have great long-term prospects. The patient doesn't have a very good long-term prognosis. Can't see me making old bones.

So, okay, he was being flippant again, but how the hell was he supposed to deal with this? If anything, it made him feel resentful. Like his life wasn't already hard enough.

This job he did – he was good at it. _Damned good, if the truth be told._ He'd sailed through Quantico and moved quickly up the ranks, carving his own niche and getting noticed. He'd done things dad and Charlie hadn't dreamed of – been places where his life was worth less than a damn. Sometimes, it seriously made him wonder. _Were dad and Charlie really that naïve?_ Did they actually believe in all honesty, that the only pre-requisite for being in the FBI was knowing which way round to hold a gun?

Charlie was a mathematician, for God's sake. Hadn't he bothered to work out the time lines and query those missing years? Hadn't he ever figured out there was an unexplained gap in Don's career?

Don tried to look at things more objectively. Maybe he was to blame for a lot of it. He'd always played his cards close to his chest. _What you don't know can't hurt you._ When it came to keeping his family informed, he'd always subscribed wholeheartedly to that saying. There'd been a time – a gap of a few years - when they were virtually estranged. Charlie had lived in England for a while and Don very rarely went home. It was not that he hadn't wanted to – it surprised him just how much he'd missed his family – but his job at the time had been unpredictable.

_And so had the risks he'd been taking. _

All that had changed when he'd moved to Albuquerque and been assigned a field office of his own. At the time, he'd been one of the youngest FBI employees in the country to be fast-tracked into such a position. And he'd earned it – Don was under no illusion. Between his time on Fugitive Recovery and the teaching job at the academy, he'd spent a couple of particularly dangerous years, mostly on assignment overseas.

_So yeah, he knew he hadn't made things easy._ And it had been for a variety of reasons. There was the awkwardness between him and Charlie – a painful and continual source of grief. As the weeks and months had turned into years, it had taken on a life all of its own. As for his career choice, well, Don knew his parents well enough. They'd been a couple of peacenik hippies to whom _Fed_ was a dirty word. He'd spent many a vaguely remembered hour being trundled to anti-war demos in his buggy. _Talk about a flower child_ - the term _really_ _had_ applied to him. There had always been an underlying sense of criticism. Unspoken, but surely implied. A real or imaginary disapproval he had intuited from mom and dad.

Don had pulled away slowly but surely and forged a path of his own. Free from their concern for his well-being, and the ever-present feelings of guilt. _Yeah, right, let's have a little honesty here_ - Don took a wry look at his motives. Part of the reason he'd been so keen to escape?

_At the time – it had been all about Charlie._

He'd wanted to get as far away as he could and just concentrate on being Don Eppes. Not Don Eppes, _'the genius's brother.' _Or – '_oh yeah, the other Eppes boy.' _He'd wanted to be somewhere – _anywhere_ – a long way from the constant talk of numbers. And if he hit the occasional bump in the road, well, it was an established occupational hazard. It just happened to be freakin' inevitable. _Only now, he had to face up to the cost._

"I don't know what to say to you, dad." _If I did, don't you think I would say it?_ "I know that you worry about me, but I can't tell you what you want to hear."

"You know what I really want to hear?" Alan spoke remarkably calmly. "What I dream of hearing you say?"

"What, other than the grandchildren thing?" Don tried to keep it humorous. He already had a pretty good idea, and there was no way he was going to like it.

Dad was as transparent as a pane of glass, and apparently, just as easily breakable. This was going to be one of the_ 'why won't you quit'_ talks, Don had come to know and love. He could hear the words verbatim in his head. _'There are plenty of proper jobs out there. You could always become an accountant.'_

Yeah, right, or he could finally flip and take up basket-weaving instead. Either that, or maybe he and Jumbo should just stock up the SUV with beer. Shove the _Beatles Greatest Hits _in the CD player and join those penguins down in Antarctica. Don rested his tired head on his knees. He was sick and he wanted his bed. He _so_ couldn't handle the guilt thing right now. He just wasn't up to dealing with the stress.

"I'm not denying the grandchildren thing," Alan regarded him dryly. "But I've given up believing in miracles. And besides, by the time you or your brother manage to achieve anything on that score, I'll probably be too old to even notice."

"Look, dad, I know this is tough on for you. It isn't easy for you or Charlie. But, trust me on this, when I tell you, this is the exception, not the norm. It's my job and I think I'm pretty good at it." Don was fast becoming short of puff. He stopped, and forced his struggling lungs to take a rasping breath. "I_ am_ considered good at what I do. I can't imagine doing anything else. There are risks – I accept it can be dangerous. But it's important – _no, wait_ - essential work. It's about keeping people safe, about right and wrong. About justice, kinda like Megan said."

It was the longest string of words he'd put together in a while. Merely coming out with it exhausted him. And truth was, it sort of put things in perspective to hear them said out in the open. Yeah – he really _did_ love his job – even though lately he'd been finding it tough.

_Burned out?_ Not quite. Nope - he wasn't done yet. _Just a little scorched around the edges._

"You're right, Donnie, none of this is easy. As a matter of fact, it's damned hard." Alan put his arm around him, much to Don's astonishment. He was still waiting to hear the _'accountant' _speech, so the action kind of took him by surprise. "I've been so worried about you. And not just since this whole Coulton thing. The injury, this bout of pneumonia – I've seen it coming for a long time now."

_Gee, dad, you coulda given me the heads-up,_ _might have saved me a whole bunch of trouble._ Don leaned back against Alan's arm, grateful for the extra support. "Wish you'd passed _that_ one along to me," was all he said. There was no sense in spoiling the moment.

Alan snorted. "Like you would've taken any notice. One thing I admire about you, Donnie, as aggravating as it can be at times, is the fact you are and have always been, so very sure in your own skin."

If he could, Don would have laughed out loud. As it was, he couldn't summon up the energy, he was beginning to get spacey again. Alan's words were truly ironic when he felt so very insecure. He felt like he was walking on shaky ground, hanging off the edge of the dammed gantry. A seething mass of insecurities, like his buddies, the worms in the can.

"I've seen how the job's been getting to you lately." Alan was talking again. "How tired you are, how much quieter you've been. To be frank, it scares the hell out of me. The thought of losing you like I lost your mother - I have to say it's been playing on my mind."

_Oh yeah, that was a kicker._ Talk about a doozy of a punch line. When it came to below the belt, Alan knew how to hit a man when he was down. _And he was down at the moment,_ Don accepted it. _Both figuratively, and literally. _The ache in his coccyx was a definite reminder he was still sitting on the hard wooden floor.

"Nice one, dad."

Don was suddenly exhausted. To his shame, he felt more tears prick his eyes. It was the fever, the illness, the antibiotics – any and all of those things. He could see his mother's face so clearly. She was looking at him, healthy and beautiful. And yet, he knew without a doubt, what she was hiding from them all. The steely resolution behind her smile.

She had shouldered the suspicion of her illness alone. For at least the first months and maybe longer. She'd done it to save her family from pain, but Don knew she had been misguided. If she'd gone to see a doctor when she'd first found the lump – if only she'd told them the truth. If she'd given Alan and Charlie the benefit of the doubt and credited them with the strength to get by. _Oh, God,_ the thought filled Don with sorrow. They could have coped – could have pulled through it together. _If only she'd confided her fears in them, there was a slender chance she'd be here today._

Don couldn't include himself in this. He was not part of the equation. He hadn't been home in a long while then. She'd been alone with her burden of knowledge.

The room was hazing around him again. Don was floating off into space. This cosy _little chat_ was over, or at least as far as he was concerned. Let dad feel free to continue with things, or maybe Jumbo could offer his two cents worth? If it came to a choice between him and the elephant, he knew which one he would choose.

"Donnie – can you hear me, Donnie?"

_Crap – dad sounded worried again._ Don wanted to reassure him. To let him know everything was all right, but he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. He still hadn't found out the answer to what dad really wanted him to say. He was just so tired. So sleepy. His head and ribcage hurt.

_Now, if he could just make the effort to get back up off the floor . . . _

**TBC**

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Part Eleven**_

****

****

There was a familiar scent in his nostrils – sharp/sweet and tantalising. It took him the best part of a minute to work out it was the fragrance of lemons. The fragrance of lemons and a tender hand, smoothing the hair back off his brow. He leant into her touch with a sigh of relief. _Dear God, he had missed her so much. _

"Mom?" His voice sounded sort of pathetic. Broken and not his own. But then, nothing was what it seemed any more, so why should he be all that surprised? In the space of a few crazy, messed-up weeks, his whole world had been turned on its head. Kinda like he'd been trapped in a time warp - like he was travelling backwards through space. Jumbo, _The Beatles,_ the whole _being dependent_ thing – perhaps he was reverting to his childhood?

Things had been much simpler then. Safer and more predictable. So, okay, the whole Charlie vibe had been weird, but he – _Don_ – had known his place in the universe. _And it hadn't involved a blaster or anything to do with Star Wars. _But time had a habit of changing things, and as Larry was so fond of saying, the universe was always in flux. The sands shifted and people moved on and away. They grew older – and, yes – _some even died._

"Mom," he called her name again, terrified she was merely a delusion. The hand on his forehead was gentler now, as the scent of lemons seemed to engulf him.

_Was he dying?_

Don wasn't really sure, and strangely, he no longer cared that much. He was floating, drifting through his memories on a gauzy tide of dreams. As terrible as the migraines always were, in a way they were kinda worth it. They were the one, sure-fire, guaranteed way of getting mom all to himself. Or at least, that was how he'd reconciled it. How he'd coped with the sickness and pain. And if he'd prolonged the agony a little – _so what_ – it had meant he could spend time with her. During those wretched days and nights, his sickroom had been her domain. It was up to dad to take care of Charlie for as long as the migraine lasted. Don knew it really bugged Charlie when his well-structured routine was upset.

Did it give him some form of perverse pleasure? _Yeah – he was human enough to admit it. _He would never have chosen to be a migraine sufferer, but hey – there had to be some perks.

And they never lasted longer than two or three days, after that, things returned to normal. School and baseball, baseball and school, while mom went back to work and Charlie. On the whole, he had never begrudged it. It had just been the way things were. He was pretty much in awe of Charlie's gift, and deep down, he loved his little brother.

_He had missed her, though_. He acknowledged it now. He really _had_ missed his mother.

"_Oh, Don - "_ He thought he heard her sigh. Her voice filled with pain and sorrow. _"I'm sorry – so sorry, baby. I thought that what I was doing was right."_

"No, mom – it's like - it's okay."

He was frantic to smooth things over - frantic to make it better. It still pierced him to hear her hurting. In the end, it always had. In the long, dark days, right before she'd died, he'd heard far too much of that. She'd clung on, in a fog of morphine – neither dead, but not really alive.

"_No, it's not."_ The hand was soft on his head. _"I made some mistakes and I regret them. There are things I would have done differently if I had my time over again. But there's one thing – one thing I want you to know – and that's just how much I always loved you, Don."_

"Mom - "

"_It was never, ever, in question. I pray you believe me, baby?"_

Her words fell like cool water on his fevered soul. Comforting, and yet, so very poignant. He felt like his heart was breaking. _He'd needed to hear those words for so long._ Don wanted to tell her he believed her. Anything to ease her pain. He could already sense her retreating from him. Something was pulling her away.

"No, wait," he reached up to try and catch hold of her wrist, but his bandaged fingers snapped closed on thin air. She had vanished from him already. Don felt his heart ache with sorrow, as he called her name again.

"Mom . . ."

But there was no answer, of course. She was gone in a fleeting moment. Leaving only a transitory impression of regret, and the faint scent of lemons behind her.

"Please stay," he called out, in desperation. It was futile. Already too late.

_Gone._ Don realised she had left him again. If she'd ever been there in the first place. For all he knew, she was a lovely illusion. A result of his fevered dreams. He groaned out loud, and opened his eyes. His bedroom was still bathed in moonlight. A big, fat, yellow, LA moon, lush with the promise of a hot tomorrow. In reality, not too much time had passed, since his ill-fated trip to the bathroom.

"Donnie – are you awake, son?"

Alan's voice gave him quite a start_. So much for the highly trained agent thing. _He couldn't tell when someone had snuck into his room, and was sat, watching him in the dark. "Dad," _his own voice was raspy as hell again._ He tried hard to make it sound casual. "What's with the urban vampire vibe? You shouldn't be sitting here in the dark."

"So, go ahead, sue me." Alan sounded disgruntled. "Why not take all my money – you already took your pound of flesh. After that little stunt you pulled on the landing, forgive me for worrying about you."

Don wrinkled his forehead in the darkness. He couldn't recall getting back into bed. The last thing he remembered was sitting on the floor, having a little tête-à-tête with dad. _Oh, yeah – it was all coming back to him._ Alan hadn't pulled any punches. He probably already had an insurance policy going to cover any funeral expenses.

_Hey, dad – no need to worry – the FBI will see to it all._

After that, everything became blurry. Don supposed he must have lost it again. Passed gracefully out into his father's arms. He was making a habit of it lately. Poor old dad must have lugged him back into bed. He certainly wouldn't have woken Charlie. And he'd been sitting alone in the dark ever since. Don felt a sudden surge of love.

"Hey, you, _Nosferatu_ in the corner. There's plenty of room over here on the bed. It's a lot more comfortable than the chair, unless you vamps like sitting alone in the dark. Wouldn't want to spoil the deadly image or anything crass like that."

"Very funny – you think you're very funny. Are you sure your friend Jumbo won't mind?" Alan's tone was dry. There was a rustle from the corner of the bedroom, and Don heard him climb stiffly to his feet.

"I don't know about that. Why don't you ask him?" Don answered sarcastically, in kind.

"I just did," the mattress dipped as Alan sat on the bed. "And Jumbo says it's all right."

Don pushed himself up against the bank of pillows. It wouldn't do to slip too far down the bed. Whenever he lay flat, he started coughing, and he'd come to dread the likelihood of that. He stared across the room towards the open window and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The night air lifted the thin muslin curtain like the vaguest whisper of breath.

_Was it real, or had he simply been dreaming?_

He didn't have a freakin' clue. He was sick, he still had a fever, and he was taking a truck-load of meds. According to the laws of logic, it had all been some grand illusion. The rational part of him was forced to agree, the odds were stacked up on that side. It wasn't as if the dead could drop by for a visit whenever they were invited. If Charlie were here, he would laugh out loud. His bro was nothing if not a sceptic. Charlie refused to give credence to anything if it didn't have a formula attached.

_Was Charlie right?_ Don sincerely hoped not_. If he was, then what the hell were they here for? Why was he out there busting his ass in an attempt to fight the good fight? _

Don felt a stab of inexplicable pain in the place where his heart ought to be. So, Charlie might not believe in the spiritual, but Don knew it was important to _him._ He wanted – _God, he really wanted to believe_ - that somehow, mom had been with him. That the strength of her love had transcended space and time and crossed over to the physical world.

_For a few seconds, if just for a moment._ It didn't matter what form it took. He wasn't thinking ghost or spook here, better leave that to Larry or Charlie to explain. _Nope _– he didn't care about the technical details. They were kinda irrelevent to him. All he wanted, was to tell her he loved her. To let her know how much he missed her. To hear she knew he hadn't abandoned her, and that she understood.

"_So, come on, mom,"_ Don spoke the words inside his head._ "Feel free to give me a sign." _

The night breeze stole in at the window again and the cream muslin trembled gently. The warm air circulated through the moonlit room and languidly caressed his face. For a moment, it felt like someone touched him. He could almost imagine her smiling. Don held his breath for a second, but then, the sensation was gone.

"She was here, Don, you have to believe it."

He felt Alan's hand brush the cast on his arm and reach for the tips of his fingers. At almost any other given time or place, dad's words would have freaked him out. But tonight wasn't like any other night; it had been swirly from start to finish. The kind of night when strange things happened and stray dogs howled at the moon.

Another human touch was kinda comforting right now. He was inordinately glad Alan was with him. He didn't bother asking how dad had known – perhaps he'd heard him call out in his sleep?

_Nope_ – Don gave a sigh of acceptance. Better _not _to ask too many questions. _As bizarre and hard as it was to believe, he was sure mom had been here, in this room._ Don curled his fingertips as much as he could, and clung onto his father's hand. It was good to enjoy the silence for a while, to lie back and watch the yellow moon. He was filled with a drowsy somnolence. A sense of calm pervaded his soul. For the first time since the encounter with Coulton, he actually felt at peace.

Eventually, Don heard Alan stir beside him. A small smile twitched the corner of his mouth. Okay, they'd had ten minutes of quiet time. _Way to go, that was pretty good for dad. _For some reason, he didn't mind now. Things were different from how they'd been earlier. If dad needed to get something off his chest, then at long last, Don felt able to cope with it.

_Besides – for some Freudian reason - it was easier to talk in the dark. _

"I see her sometimes," Alan spoke, matter-of-factly. "Usually, when I've taken a nap. She comes to me on the borderlands – the place between sleep and dreams. She looks just like she used to. As healthy and beautiful as ever. If you asked for her, Don, then of course she would come. She was your mother – how could she stay away?"

"I asked for her." Don was barely audible. "I asked for the first time since she died. She's been close to me since I got injured. Somehow, I just felt her near."

"Oh, Donnie," Alan's grasp on his fingers tightened, and it took him several seconds to answer. When he_ did_ manage to talk again, Don heard the hitch in his voice. "I've had a feeling for quite a while now – a feeling I was going to lose you. It's been tormenting me, always preying on my mind, every time you walk out the front door."

"Dad - "

"No, please, Don, just hear me out for once. Indulge me, I _am _your father. I started to say it earlier, but never got around to finishing. I know you can't give up your job, son. And believe it or not, I won't ask you. But don't let the job define you, don't let it strip away who you are."

Don thought about it for a moment. _Had he let the FBI define him?_ Don Eppes, FBI Agent. _Was this the sum and total of his parts?_

He hoped not. _Dear God, he hoped not._ Although he had a suspicion he was headed in that direction. He'd been skating on thin ice lately, exhausted and unsure of whom he was. Doctor Bradford had been helping with some of it, but the man was not a miracle worker. If he truly wanted to get out of this rut, the impetus had to come from within. It all stemmed back to when mom died. As though his life had reached a weird kind of hiatus. He'd found it so hard to look forward, to see past the end of the next case. It was almost as though he'd convinced himself there was no point in looking any further. _Yeah,_ Don was obliged to re-examine himself, to concede _he was_ entitled to a future.

"You know, I kinda understood that already." It was hard to finally admit it.

_Crap. Darkness or not, it was still difficult. He'd never been any good at this soul-searching stuff. It was quicker and a damned sight easier to wash his problems down with a few cold beers._

In the end, the beers weren't much of an answer. They just temporarily softened the question. A quick burst of chemically induced oblivion which never really took the pain away. _Oh, sure, it was nice while it lasted._ He had a few hours of blessed relief. But when he woke-up the next morning, bet your life the hurting hadn't gone. _Nope – there was no getting away from it. _His life had been spiralling lately. With a sigh, Don determined to be honest and make a clean breast of it to dad.

"Being sick, it's made me look at it all differently, forced me to front up to some stuff. Until now, I've been running on empty, kinda jaded for the last few months. But all of this - Coulton, the gantry - what I said earlier about my job. It made me realise how much I love it. How much I'd miss it, if it was gone. And - " _time to lighten the mood_ _again - enough already with the heavy talk. _"If a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. You and mom taught me that."

"Me and my big mouth," Alan's tone was wry, but at the same time, he squeezed Don's fingers. "And, yes, before you faint in surprise, it does my heart good to hear you say this. I – I want so much for you, Donnie, both you mother and I always did. I'm not talking about position, or wealth or success – at the end of the day, I just want you to be happy."

"Sounds so simple, doesn't it?" Don couldn't help being sardonic. The one, common, human denominator. _Then why, in God's name, was it so hard?_

"Have faith, son. It's out there, I know it is. And no one's worked harder for it, than you have. May I take this opportunity to remind you, that as your father, I'm always right?"

"I hope so, dad," _I really hope so._ "It just seems to be taking its sweet time."

Don's eyelids were getting heavy. His illness was catching up with him. _In the giant, cosmic scheme of things, it had been one hell of a night._ Inevitably, he started to cough again, leaning forward with resignation. And once again, Alan supported him, a comforting hand on his back. _He was so grateful for this, he really was. _All sarcasm and mockery aside. For the way folks had rallied around him, his team, his friends, and most of all, his family. Okay, they were not your average family – _that was a minor understatement_ - but whatever they might lack in normality, they more than made up for with love.

_Whoa – stop. Enough, right there. He must be losing it._ Don chuckled a little in the moonlight. If Charlie ever heard him say something like that, he would never live it down in this lifetime.

**TBC**

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**A Little Help From My Friends**

* * *

_**Part Twelve**_

_This was more like it – this was the life._ This was how _real_ convalescence should be. Don shifted back in the recliner and turned his face to the sun. Someone, more likely dad than Charlie, had placed the sun bed and a couple of chairs in the dappled shade by the Koi pond. The weather was still off the temperature gauge, way hot, even for LA. Bees buzzed and flowers bloomed. The fish blew bubbles in the water. Other than that, Don was quite alone. It was a little slice of heaven.

_The Prisoner of Pasadena had managed to evade his jailors. _

He'd been out of bed for a couple of days now, on and off, slowly testing his limits. He wasn't quite up to a home run yet, but if he took things really carefully, he might just about make it to first base. _Yeah, right. He needed to qualify that._ It was probably just the teensiest exaggeration. There was nothing wrong with being optimistic, but he was still a million miles off his game. Truth was, he could just about stagger from the dug-out and get as far as the plate. He still coughed and wheezed like a ninety year old on three packs of cigarettes a day.

But it was better. _It was getting better._ At least he could walk unaided through the house, and best of all, _oh, joy, oh, bliss,_ he could visit the bathroom by himself. His knee was a little stiff and sore, but he didn't really need the crutches. The swelling had gone down on his right hand and the cuts had almost healed. The left hand would take much longer, but that was pretty much to be expected. At long last, he'd turned the corner. It seemed like it had taken forever.

_It was all down to the chicken soup, of course_. Or, at least, according to Alan. Don had been force-fed so much of the stuff, he half expected to sprout a few feathers. So maybe he was being a tad unfair. His appetite had been non-existent. A combination of fever and mega-antibiotics had effectively seen to that. It was only now he was up, and moving around, that any kind of food was appealing.

Don slanted a glance down at his stomach. It was as hard and flat as a washboard. It was gonna take more than a rib-eye or two to get back up to his fighting weight again. It was one more thing to look forward to. Being able to eat with impunity. Steaks and doughnuts, and Italian food. Don began to feel inordinately cheerful. No more chicken soup – like _ever_. It would be fun for a while – _bring it on._

_On the whole,_ Don was forced to admit, _things hadn't been too bad._ Ever since the night on the landing, Alan and Charlie had been remarkably self-restrained. Amazingly self-restrained, in-fact, and decidedly out of character. No mother hens clucking and not too much fussing. Just quiet support when he needed it. Other than the ubiquitous chicken soup, there'd hardly been any poultry in sight. Not that Don was complaining, of course, but a small part of him speculated as to why.

He suspected Alan had spoken to Charlie. Probably confided in him a bit. _Well, okay,_ Don had no problem with that_, he just wondered how much dad had told him. _Not everything by a long chalk. Alan was far too considerate for that. Anything he and Don had discussed in confidence would be treated with total respect.

As it was, Don was really grateful and more than a little relieved. He'd been given plenty of time and space, and allowed to recover at his own tempo. _Best of all,_ Don smiled to himself; _he hadn't been forced to send out for his gun._ Most of the time, he listened to the radio and simply drowsed his days away. Too tired to do much of anything else, other than rest and recuperate. To his surprise, he hadn't been bored at all. _Not once_ - he found it kind of astonishing. It was incredible, and just a fraction scary, how weak and exhausted he felt. He'd been unable to read for the first few weeks, concentrating on print gave him a headache. It wasn't until the concussion was fully healed he could resume that pleasure again.

There was a book on the table beside him now. Leon Uris's _Exodus._ He'd read it before, many moon's ago, but was enjoying it all over again. It was far less taxing and almost comforting, to dig out a trusty old favourite, his brain wasn't quite up to the challenge of tackling any job-related paperwork. And he hadn't entirely lost his marbles - discretion was the better part of valour. If Alan so much as suspected he'd had some case-notes smuggled in, his ass was as good as toast.

_Star Wars_ and penguins, elephants and _Looney Tunes._ All perfectly normal in the scheme of things. Just a few of the weird and wonderful items he kept locked away in his mind. He was usually so decisive - _so focused_ - so deeply immersed in his work. _Who knew there was a whack-job inside his head just kicking up a storm to be let out? _

_Don Eppes – sharp as a razor – yeah, right._ A blunt _Bic _ratherthan a cutthroat. Made him wonder how many brain cells had died from the time he'd had his run in with Coulton. Enough to make him a little _Looney Tunes_, that was one thing for certain. _Could be a result of the concussion,_ Don supposed, he'd been a tad squirly ever since.

Don glanced across at the Uris again. This was another weird thing. His accident, the _Pisarro_ and the talk with dad, all of a sudden, he was feeling more Jewish. Oh, not in the sense he would start growing a beard, or buy tickets to see _Fiddler on the Roof._ He had no strange yearnings for cholent or Aunt Irene's gefilte fish. _Nope – it was kinda hard to explain_, and not something Don felt all that comfortable with. Not a religious thing, in the strict sense of the word, but more of a spiritual pull. Back to the chicken soup again. _It was dad's chicken soup_, he was sure of it. Fifty or so gallons later, and it was doing strange things to his psyche.

_Perhaps if you gave a man enough chicken soup, it brought out the hidden Jew in his soul?_

Of course, with a pinch of hindsight, there was another, more personal reason, for his book choice. Something about it struck a chord in him, a sudden desire to find out more. Since his own brief sojourn in Israel, he could re-read it with added knowledge. Uris described some of the places Don had seen for himself.

_Dad's fault - it was all dad's fault for reminding him about the Pisarro_. For some reason, Don felt really inspired to start researching their family tree. _It was a_ _little like dad with the holocaust books_. His own way of paying some respects. If he could retrace their last terrible journeys, at the very least, he might discover where those lost family members had died.

_If he could ever shift his ass from the recliner, that was. It really was kinda comfortable out here_. Don felt his eyelids start to droop and made a point of opening his eyes. _Not again,_ he was sleeping his life away. _Just call me Rip Van winkle. Maybe he would listen to the sports scores, or read another chapter of his book. _

_Yeah, right . . . _

The next time Don awoke, it was at least two hours later_. So much for an afternoon of activity. Alan would be delighted to find him asleep out here. _The sun had changed its position in the sky, casting longer shadows over the yard. Flowers still bloomed and bees still buzzed, but the day had begun its inevitable slide towards evening. The quality of the light had changed. It was softer, more golden and mellow. The harsh white glare of the oppressive heat had given way to a rosy glow.

_Here we go,_ Don always coughed when he woke. By now, he was grimly resigned to it. He shifted up in the recliner and swung his legs over the edge. It was gradually getting easier. The cough was decidedly looser. His ribcage wasn't aching _quite _so much and he still had the lining of his lungs. _Or at least, he hoped he did,_ better make that a caveat. He wasn't due another follow-up x-ray until the end of the week. Of course, these things were all relative. _Not quite so much_ – well, it didn't mean not at all. Don placed an arm across his chest and hung on until the storm had passed.

It was over after five minutes or so. _Hey – he was definitely getting better._ It usually took the best part of half an hour before the coughing and spitting stopped.

"What the – very funny. You can come out now, Charlie." Don reached across to the table and placed Jumbo down beside him. If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn the stuffed elephant was smirking. It sat on his lap, gazing cross-eyed at him, a self-satisfied smile on its felt face. No doubt something to do with its magical propensity for following him around the house and garden.

Charlie sauntered around the back of the recliner. He didn't look un-like the elephant. There were two tall glasses in his hands and he sported a mischievous grin. "Hey, bro, good to finally see you awake. I would have joined you earlier, but I didn't want to spoil your commune with nature."

Don scowled at Charlie as he took one of the glasses. Charlie sat down in one of the chairs. For someone who'd been at work in a heat wave all day, his little brother seemed inordinately cheerful. His curls stuck up wildly around his head and there was a streak of chalk on his nose. He was looking typically Charlie-like, a paean to _what not to wear._ Paisley print shirt and baggy pants, Don couldn't help a slight shudder. But he was forced to admit, with a flash of sudden fondness, the eccentric vibe looked kinda right.

"Like I said, very funny." Don gestured towards Jumbo. "Just like the time he turned up when Megan came. What, I'm gonna have to check I'm an elephant-free zone every time I get a visitor?"

"I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," Charlie wrinkled his brow at him. "Hey, you want to re-live your childhood and go to bed with a stuffed elephant, it's not like there's anyone else right now, and I think it's kinda sweet."

"Gee, thanks," Don gave him a deadly glare. "Make me feel better, why don't you? The comment on my lack of sex life, I really appreciate the reminder. Are you telling me in all seriousness, you didn't plant Jumbo out here?"

"Not guilty," Charlie said, promptly. "I've only just got back from CalSci. I saw you through the kitchen window, and thought I'd fix us a drink. Hey, Don - " he pointed at Jumbo, and widened his eyes in mock alarm. "Maybe there's something weird going on. Could be, he's an eerie elephant. A jinxed Jumbo, a terrifying tusker. A poltergeist pachyderm."

"Yeah, right," Don lobbed _'said'_ haunted elephant at his brother's curly head. "Or maybe, the only weird thing around here is you."

"Not a bad throw for a one-armed man." Charlie placed the _eerie elephant _comfortably in his lap, and studied Don with slightly more scrutiny. "In fact, you're looking a little less ghostly, yourself. You know, not so much of the undead thing."

"Know what, Charlie?" Don said, fondly, "You really know how to make my day. First the underhand jibes about my sex-life - "

"Or lack-of - "

"Or lack-of," Don continued, gamely, "and then the comments about my appearance. What next, you remark on my personal hygiene, or perhaps kick my crutches away?"

"That one's kinda moot," Charlie considered it. "Seeing as you refuse to use the crutches. However, if you want to talk personal hygiene - "

"Oh yeah?" Don snorted into his drink. "I don't think so, Charlie. I'm not the one who still thinks _sartorial elegance_ is a character in _Star Wars."_

"Very funny, this is very funny. Especially coming from a man who sits around in a ratty old t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts all day. And by the way, the _Star Wars_ character – that was _Salacious Crumb_."

Don grinned at that. _Touché, Charlie - there go the metaphorical crutches._ So okay, he wasn't using the real ones, but Charlie still managed to kick them away. _Well, all right,_ he might concede this time. It showed he was still off his game. Better work some more on getting his mojo back before he went off to verbal war again.

He lifted his head to admit defeat and saw the look on Charlie's face. _Uh-oh,_ Don felt his heart sink. He knew this look of old. Enquiring and slightly anxious, a bit like an inquisitive bird. Charlie's moods had always been like this. _Talk about freakin' mercurial_. _Up one minute and down the next, at the drop of the proverbial hat._ One moment he'd be laughing about something, in the blink of an eye, feeling sad. _Duh_ - it didn't precisely take a genius to see what Charlie was worried about now. Don squared his shoulders in readiness. He knew exactly what was coming.

"Um, Megan dropped by CalSci today to pick up some statistics. We went for a cup of coffee, and she um – she asked after you."

"It's all right, Charlie."

"The thing is," Charlie looked away from him and began to play abstractedly with Jumbo's slightly moth-eaten ears. "_The thing is,_ I told her I thought you were getting better."

"I am." Don shrugged his shoulders. "You told the truth, so what's the big deal? She drops by here fairly frequently too. In-fact, she's coming to dad's cook-out tonight. Megan has an idea how I'm doing, it's not like any of this is a secret."

"The big deal?" Charlie laughed without humour. "The big deal is I don't really know _how_ you are, Don. Actually, I don't have a clue. Oh, sure, I can see your health's improving - you don't cough quite as much as you used to. I even saw you eat something yesterday and dad's actually started smiling again."

"Charlie - "

"No, Don. I'm doing the talking here, and this time you're going to listen. This whole thing – this whole thing's been scary. Like a being on a giant rollercoaster. Up and down and slightly out of control. It's been one hell of a ride."

"I know, and I'm sorry." Don put his glass down. _Great, this was just what he needed._ DIY psych. evaluation at the end of a long, hot day. "Hey, come on, bro," he tried to make light of things. "Time to stop worrying about me. Take a look, you can see for yourself. I'm fine, or at least I will be. You need to hop off that rollercoaster, or I'll have to set the _eerie elephant_ on you."

"You just don't get it, do you, Don?" Charlie regarded him with exasperation. Dad and I – we _always_ worry about you. Always have, and always will, but we both accept its part of who you are. Part of the whole Don Eppes package. This time, though – I've really tried. Tried my best to do what you wanted. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to leave you coughing in the middle of the night? Or to watch you struggling to the bathroom, too damned stubborn to ask for any help?"

"Charlie," Don inhaled patiently, and attempted to speak again.

"It's okay, Don, you don't have to explain. I understand, I really do. You hate it when people fuss over you. I think we all got the message."

"Then what's the problem?" It was a level question. _Did he really want to hear the answer? _It struck him as vaguely ironic he and Charlie were having this conversation. Charlie – his genius brother, so used to taking centre stage. Charlie - the whiz-kid prodigy, who sucked up attention like a _Hoover._

_Way to go, Eppes._ Don looked across at Charlie and was suddenly ashamed of himself. Charlie was clearly troubled by this, and more than a little upset. It was the same old, same old, story. Charlie had a knack of making him feel guilty. A gift for turning the emotional tables on him, regardless of who was to blame.

_Yeah, so he was different from Charlie. Well, life had kinda made him that way._ It was far too late to fix things now.

_It was too late to change who he was. _

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**A Little Help From My Friends**

* * *

_**Part Thirteen**_

_Still looking a little off colour, Eppes_ - Don stared at himself hard in the mirror. His face was a hell of a lot leaner. A study in angles and planes. But, _and Charlie was definitely right here,_ he no longer looked like one of the undead. Merely pale and interesting as opposed to cadaver white. _And_ – taking of sartorial elegance - in-spite of Charlie's earlier sarcasm, it felt good, _really good_, to be wearing decent clothes again. To get out of the ratty old t-shirts and into something which made Don feel more human. Tonight, in special honour of dad's cook-out, he'd made an effort and got properly dressed.

"Hey, you," Megan propped herself up in the open doorway and studied him approvingly, a bottle of beer swinging from her hand. "Wow – real clothes, huh?" A small smile played around the corners of her lips. "You know, you scrub up kinda well. I'd forgotten what you looked like with your duds on."

"Did you want something in particular, Special Agent Reeves?" Don tried his best to be quelling.

"Alan sent me to find you. Sounds like the food's almost done."

"Right," Don straightened up and turned to face her. A sudden gleam appeared in his eye as he observed the beer in her hand. "Tell me again, Special Agent Reeves, what was it I overheard you saying earlier? Something about what a great boss you have? What a swell guy he is, and how much you miss him – and you _really _want out of that mountain of paperwork . . ."

"I also _really want_ to be invited back to his brother's house. I happen to enjoy coming here." Megan shook a finger at him, as she linked her free hand through his arm. "If your dad finds out I've been smuggling you beer, I may never darken this doorstep again."

"Don't worry about it, Agent Reeves. I'll tell him I gave you a direct order." Don relaxed and shot her a conspiratorial grin as she handed him the bottle of beer. "And besides, what he doesn't know can't hurt him. This stays between you and me."

"Ah, blackmail. What's it worth, _Special Agent Eppes_? The possibilities are endless. Let me see," she cocked her head in mock thought. "An extra month's paid leave? Special assignment at a five star health spa, or maybe I should settle for having Colby as my personal gopher. I'll let you know when I decide - all this power _could_ go to a girl's head."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Don took a mouthful of beer. "That's just about until the end of this bottle. After that, I'm denying all knowledge. As far as dad and the subject of alcohol goes, I'm like totally pleading the fifth."

Either the alcohol content of beer just got higher, or he was seriously out of practice. It took him several minutes to drink half a bottle and the liquid went straight to his head. There was nothing quite like a cocktail of booze and antibiotics to play dirty with his equilibrium. Just add a dash of codeine to give it a little extra kick. Don sighed, and leaned up against the wall. _Hey, he just needed a moment._ It wasn't that he felt dizzy, oh, no, just a tad left of centre. _This really wasn't fair_. Life sucked hugely - _mega-sucked_ - sometimes. He'd been looking forward to sneaking a beer for the better part of the day. It was always the little things that crept up on you. Crept up on you and got you down.

Megan gently reclaimed the rest of the bottle. To her credit, she refrained from an _'I told you so.'_ They started to make their way along the landing before she spoke again. "Sometimes, life has a sneaky little habit of not quite turning out the way we planned."

So, okay, he didn't have to be a mind reader. It was obvious she didn't mean the beer. Don sighed again – more heavily this time. Dear God, not another _'Why d'you have to be such a stubborn bastard' _lecture. He really didn't think he could bear it. Perhaps he should sit down and print off a speech – he could hand copies around to all of the guests. Maybe _everyone_ could give their ten cents worth and come up with some sort of hypothesis. More pocket DIY analysis – _hey, it was a good idea. _A novel kind of party ice-breaker, even more fun than spin the bottle.

_Don Eppes – Stubborn SOB: Consider and debate -_ A little something to be digested along with the nachos and dip.

First dad, then Charlie, and now Megan. _Who next – Jumbo the freakin' elephant?_ He'd been hurt, he'd been ill. He'd been patched-up. And now, at long last, he was recovering. There it was in a nutshell. _No biggie - end of story. _His life wasn't a source of discussion for the edifice of anyone else. Don suddenly knew how those butterflies felt – all laid out under glass cases and neatly pinned to their cards.

"Don't," he said, abruptly. "You have no idea how many times I've heard this. Yeah, right, I'm a difficult patient. I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed up."

"Hey," Megan threw her hands up in quick surrender. "You can put away the heavy artillery. Just me being philosophical here – it wasn't meant as a lecture. Although, now you come to mention it . . ."

"I didn't." Don mimicked zipping his mouth up. "No mention. Zero – nada - zilch. You see? My lips are sealed." He sighed with deep frustration. "Look, sorry for jumping down your throat there. It's just that I'm feeling kinda antsy about the whole damned_ stubborn _thing. Charlie tried to talk to me earlier, and I like _big time_ blew him off."

"Uh-huh," Megan regarded him, sympathetically. "I sort of guessed he was down in the dumps. The whole _solitary brooding in the garage vibe_ can be a bit of a dead giveaway. I also figured I'd find the source of his blues somewhere up here all alone."

"You figured right." Don cracked a wry smile. _Oh, Lord, Charlie had holed up in the garage._ "Must be all that special training. It's a fair cop, Special Agent Reeves. I'm your man, guilty as charged." He frowned. "You know, I sort of squared things off with dad, but for some reason, it's harder with Charlie. Guess it always gets back to the brother issue. Big brother, little brother. All that sibling kinda stuff."

"Big brother, little brother." She repeated his words. "I think you just hit the nail on the head. You know, despite or in-spite of, anything else that happens along the way, that particular dynamic will always remain the same."

"It's called being born first," Don shot her a sideways look. "Duh, you know, like being the eldest?"

"It's more than that, in this case." Megan tapped him gently on the shoulder. "And, less of the sarcasm, Bossman, you know _exactly_ what I mean. Even when you both reach your eighties, you'll always be Charlie's big brother. He's _always_ going to look up to you, and you'll _always_ feel a sense of responsibility towards him. It's too deeply embedded inside you both. For two brothers so totally different, you and Charlie are amazingly close."

"Maybe," Don's voice lowered an octave. He was suddenly, incredibly, sad. "We weren't always. In-fact, it was kinda touch and go for a while back there. It was mom's illness which brought me back home."

Megan looked at him levelly. "I'm not going to insult you with clichés. All those trite words about silver linings which don't mean a goddamned thing. Whatever your reasons were, Don, no one forced you to come back. You made a life-changing decision. You could have moved on again when your mom died, but you didn't. You chose to stay." Her arm tightened gently through his. "Maybe it's time you asked yourself why?"

Holy smokes, she was spooky sometimes. Just about as scary as the elephant. Don pondered the question for the umpteenth time – _was Megan Reeves really a witch?_

She was right, though, he was forced to admit it. When all the dust from mom's funeral had settled, no one had forced him to stay. He could have picked up and taken off again. It wasn't as though he hadn't had the offers. Washington had come calling several times since he'd been back in LA. _And he'd been tempted – too right, he'd been tempted. _Some of the proposals had been worthwhile and enticing, and he'd been flattered to have them laid at his door. A few little matters of national security which would have taken him overseas again.

In the end, he'd turned them down. Each and every one of them. He'd stayed for Alan and Charlie's sake. _Or at least that was what he'd told himself. _Looking at it now, in retrospect, Don knew he hadn't been entirely honest. Sure, dad and Charlie had been a part of it, but they weren't the only reason he'd stayed. The time had been right to come home again. It was as simple and straightforward as that.

_After years spent running away from his past, he could finally acknowledge who he was. _

He was Alan's oldest son and Charlie's big brother. He was Don Eppes, FBI Agent. He was all of those things and so much more. He didn't need them to define him as a person.

"Don – a penny for them?" Megan's half-smiling query brought him back down to earth.

"Sorry. Look – would you mind telling dad I'll be out in a while? There's something I have to do first." He gave her a quick grin of apology and withdrew his arm from hers. "You said Charlie was in the garage?"

"Attaboy," she patted him approvingly on the shoulder. "I'll go ask Alan for his marinade recipe. That should distract him for a while."

"Yeah, right." Don couldn't resist it. "Diversionary tactics, Agent Reeves. You never know, he might even go for it. Dad's never had to experience your cooking."

"Be careful," she indicated the empty beer bottle as she headed off down the stairs. "Be very, very, careful. It might be wise to remember I still hold a bargaining chip."

* * *

The yard was redolent with drifting smoke and the tantalising smell of dad's cooking. A string of red Chinese lanterns hung between the branches of the trees. Don made it safely around the side of the house without encountering anyone else. Right now, he was a man on a mission, and he didn't want to be waylaid.

It was stiflingly warm out in the garage. The air was thick with the familiar scent of old wood, dust motes and chalk. Don paused for a moment on the threshold. He needed to catch his breath. The trip downstairs had taken it out of him and he was feeling short of puff. He didn't want to face Charlie just yet. _Deja-vu – this was so familiar._ The torturous days just before mom's death_ -_ just standing here brought it all back again. The number of times he'd hesitated on this entrance, to what he'd always thought of as Charlie's domain. He listened hard. _Yup – there it was._ The _clack, clack_ of chalk on the blackboards. The plethora of memories the sound evoked were a mixture of both pleasure and pain.

His breathing was slightly easier now. Don pushed the door a little wider. Time to bite the proverbial bullet and do what had to be done. Okay, so he was talking in clichés again. Like some pulp-fiction, two-bit, hero. Anyone would think he was about to storm the beachhead or jump out of a goddamned plane.

_Well, perhaps he was, metaphorically._ There it was, the metaphor word. All he needed now was a Beatles song or maybe Jumbo the freakin' psychopathic elephant.

"Hey, Charlie," Don ducked through the doorway and strolled nonchalantly on into the garage. It was easier to role-play his way through this. Easier to pretend to be tough. "The party's out in the yard, bro, so what are you doing in here?"

_Like I don't know._ Suddenly, tough didn't feel so good. Suddenly, it felt kind of inadequate. How many times had they played this game, skirting around the big issues? Pretending that the waters were shallow and safe and avoiding the undertow. _What was it Megan had said back there - something about him and Charlie?_

'_For two brothers so totally different, you and Charlie are amazingly close.'_

_Talk about ironic._ Don studied Charlie carefully. He stood there, brows lowered and frowning. His curls were wild from frequent raking. There was more white chalk dust streaked down his face, like the train tracks of ghostly tears. _Uh-oh,_ Don recognised the signs. This did not look good. _This did so not look good._ Don nearly turned tail there and then. Easier by far to feign ignorance and pretend he hadn't picked up on Charlie's mood.

"You probably shouldn't be in here." Charlie swept his hand around his head with a vague gesture. "The air's too full of chalk dust. You'll be coughing your guts up in a minute or two. It can't be good for your lungs."

_Stuff his lungs._ Don took another step into the room and developed a sudden interest in Charlie's boards. Row upon row of numbers and symbols. All of them so damnably familiar. He sure as hell wasn't the mathematician – but these little suckers _had _ruled his life. His stomach clenched abruptly. _Yeah, right -_ s_o much for acting the tough guy._ For a brief second, Don saw red. Mom, his childhood, his relationship with Charlie . . .

_Dear God, he hated them._

"Don?" Charlie's somewhat haunted expression changed to one of swift concern. "What's wrong, are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

_But he wasn't._ He was anything but _all right_. In-fact, Don found he was shaking. The numbers blurred before his eyes as he stumbled across to the old sofa. This wasn't the way it was meant to be. Not the way he'd intended things to happen. It was as though he'd just been pulled off the gantry, like he was back in the warehouse that day. Everything was sharper, _clearer,_ kinda like the proverbial calm before a storm. Not unlike the feeling of lucidity which usually accompanied a migraine aura. A peculiar and almost primal hyper-sensitivity that presaged the first stabs of pain.

_Not that. Please God, not a migraine._ After everything he'd been through during the last few weeks, Don didn't think he could stand it. Hopefully, this was a nice little side-effect of mixing a drug and alcohol cocktail. And now he was paying the price for it - he could almost hear Alan's voice in his head. _The doomed and inevitable upshot of being a bad boy again._ It was either the fusion of beer and pills or the psychic revenge of dad.

_So much for being a rebel. For actually daring to drink a beer. _

Don felt the old cushions dip and sag as Charlie sat down beside him. He was aware of an inordinate swell of relief and a sensation of bony warmth. _Skinny – Charlie was way too skinny._ Although, at the moment, he was hardly one to criticise. It was just another knock-on complication of this whole, darn, messed-up, thing.

"You got dressed and came down here by yourself?"

Don sighed. "Charlie, don't. That's not it. If you must know, I mooched a beer from Megan. Just promise me you won't tell dad."

First Megan and now Charlie. He was giving away too many blackmail levers. Don was filled with a nasty suspicion that they might come home to bite him on the ass. He took a breath. The shaking had stopped now. _Poor little tough guy, me._ It was ridiculous to get so stressed out over a few rows of numbers. It wasn't the numbers he hated – more the hurt they had represented during his childhood.

And it was _had. I__n the past tense. _Don realised as he sat next to Charlie. Right now, his relationship with his brother, it was the best it had ever been in both their lives.

"A beer, huh?" Charlie shook his head, but there was the hint of a smile on his face. "You do realise dad would go ballistic if he knew?"

"What do you want?" Don sighed in resignation. "Come on, might as well get it over with. Megan's already decided on a week's assignment at some luxury spa."

"Let's see," Charlie pretended to consider. "It's Aunt Irene's birthday in a couple of week's time – dad always ropes me into visiting. This time, I'm pretty sure - _no, I'm certain_ - you would like to volunteer to go instead."

Don groaned and clutched onto his chest. "Hey, d'you want me to have a relapse? Sick man, _very_ sick man, here."

"Beer," Charlie reminded him, helpfully. "You know, beer, medications, dad? Hey, it's still three weeks away. You won't be so sick then."

"I wasn't referring to me," Don groused.

It didn't help when Charlie laughed. "Aw, come on. Suck it up, big brother of mine. You know how much Aunt Irene would_ love_ to see you."

So, okay he had asked for this. It was worth it to see Charlie smiling. _It was?_ Don repressed a shudder, remembering his last visit to Aunt Irene's rambling, over-crowded house. Lace doilies and violet-scented talcum powder - her vast collection of Victorian dolls. _What was it about dolls,_ he wondered. _Who in Hades would ever want to collect them? _Dozens of pairs of glassy eyes all following you around the room.

And then, there would be the usual interrogation about his love-life or lack thereof. _Gee, this was going to be such fun._ The sacrifices one made for brotherly love.

The thought brought Don back down to earth with a bump. Time to get things over and done with. He had something he needed to get off his chest and it wasn't just a barrel load of phlegm. He owed Charlie, owed him big-time. An apology and a little honesty. Get it out in the open, above board and in the clear. Then, what the hell, maybe they could get out of here and go and enjoy the party.

"Look, Charlie - " _Why the hell was this so difficult?_ "About earlier this afternoon . . ."

"Don't." Charlie stiffened beside him, a sudden hitch in his voice. "There's no need, Don. I'm sorry, okay? I had no right to say the things I did. No right to lecture or nag at you. Dear God, what was I thinking? You've been so sick and ill."

"No, wait," Don ran his good hand through his hair. "You did. You _did_ have a right. Seriously, bro, I owe you an apology. You and dad – you've both been pretty good to me – and I'm not like the greatest patient in the world."

"Are you kidding?" Charlie leant back in feigned amazement, and regarded him with the glimmer of a smile. "You are totally the _worst_ patient in the world. Having said that, we – we nearly lost you. I'm just glad you're still here being difficult. I'd kind of miss the stubbornness if you weren't."

"You would?" Don managed to crack a grin in-spite of the sudden lump in his throat. "Enough maybe, to reconsider the Aunt Irene deal?"

"In your dreams," Charlie scoffed right back at him, even though his eyes were suspiciously damp. "No way you get to wriggle out of that one. The Aunt Irene deal still stands."

"Now, see, I don't know about that, Charlie." Don's grin grew a tad more crafty. "There's the little matter of a recent incident involving an elevator and a wheelchair."

"You wouldn't," Charlie went a shade paler. "Don, you wouldn't dare?"

"_Wheelchair,"_ Don mimicked Charlie's earlier words. _"You know, wheelchair, elevator, dad? _Hey, it's still three weeks away. You'll be more resigned to it by then."

"I think I definitely preferred it when you were being all strong and silent. At least when you were stubborn and moody you didn't have much to say." Charlie started grumbling bitterly. "I cannot believe you would stoop so low and rat me out about that to dad."

"_Aw, come on. Suck it up, little brother of mine. You know Aunt Irene would love to see you." _

"Yeah, right. Who's sick now?"

Charlie helped Don up to his feet, the chalk and numbers temporarily forgotten. They were still sniping good-humouredly at each other as they closed the garage door.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

_A big thanks to all of you who took time to read and review this - to the anonymous reviewers as well. _

* * *

**A Little Help From My Friends**

_**Epilogue**_

It was a warm evening, mellow and golden. The Chinese lanterns glowed among the trees. The moon was already a ghostly shadow in the sky over the distant mountains. Don felt a sense of pleasure and spreading calm as he heard laughter and the sound of sizzling meat. His team were making the most of it – enjoying the hospitality and cooking. He watched them with a little smile on his face and an almost paternal sense of pride. Sometime in not so distant future, when all this was finally over, he would do what he'd promised in the hospital (the first time around) and take them all out somewhere special. They deserved it – more than deserved it. He was dammed lucky to have them working on his side.

Music. Someone had put some music on. And, almost inevitably, it was the _Beatles._ Don heard the first bars of a familiar song with a frisson of deja-vu. As songs went, it was more than appropriate. _A Little Help from My Friends._ Since the start of this whole freakin' fiasco, he'd received rather more than just a little. It was down to _a little help from his friends_ he was out here with them tonight. _Not just friends,_ he added a caveat, _how about a shout out for family?_ In the great, universal scheme of things, he owed so much to Charlie and dad.

_He'd been hanging onto the gantry for dear life – the unforgiving concrete below him. Megan talking, keeping him calm, as she let him know help was on the way. David taking Coulton out with two well-placed shots - a split second when he'd known he was falling. And then a moment of strange acceptance before the cast-iron grip of Colby's hand._

_Yup – a little help from his friends, all right._ Don watched them all from the recliner. He lay on his back beside the Koi pond, half-hidden in the shadows beneath the trees. A long absent mood of contentment began to steal through his veins. It had been far too long since he'd felt like this. Happy - _dare he say at peace? _He was totally at ease just to sit here, staring up at the pale violet sky. _Too long._ It had been too long. After weeks of pain and discomfort, he actually felt like a human being.

He could see Alan with his crazy chef's hat on. The one Millie had given him recently. It sat at a lop-sided angle, perched drunkenly on his head. It was so good to see dad laughing. _What the hell was Millie doing with those cooking tongs?_ Don didn't think that was quite what dad had in mind when he called them the sausage grippers.

Don grinned and winced at their antics. They were acting like a couple of teenagers. For someone with such an august reputation, Millie Finch was like a breath of fresh air. _'You'd like her, mom,' _he whispered, a slight ache in his heart. _'I know you'd really like her. She's bright and sparky and funny. You'd approve of what she's done for dad.' _And it was true, Don realised, with gratitude. He was genuinely happy for Alan. It was terrific to see dad acting the clown - to see him having fun once again.

Being sick wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs, but it had given him some brand new perspectives. Forced him to sit back and smell the roses - he remembered Megan's silver lining thing. She was right about the triteness aspect of it, but there _was_ a tiny glimmer of truth among all the tired old clichés. He'd been burning out, no doubt about it. On a collision course with a breakdown or a bullet. Barely scraping by from day to day on too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The enforced time away had opened his eyes. Made him look at things from a totally different angle.

He'd sort of forgotten why he loved his job. Why he'd joined the FBI in the first place. The intrinsic sense of right and wrong which had always flowed and burned in his veins. It had got a little lost along the way - pulled under by the bureaucratic undertow. For the best part of two or three years now, he had worried it was irretrievably gone. Don heaved a sigh of resignation. _It was time for some real honesty when he eventually got back to work. _Doc Bradford didn't know what he was in for. The man was gonna have his work cut out unravelling the ball of string inside Don's head. _Star Wars, the Beatles and Looney Tunes._

_Don wondered if the good doctor liked elephants. _

And talking of elephants – Don shook his head. This really was getting kinda silly. Sure enough, Jumbo was out here - sitting beside him on the recliner once again. And yet, earlier on, when he'd gone in to get changed, he'd made darn sure he'd taken him in.

"So, fess up. You gonna come on out and spill the beans – you gonna tell me why you keep following me around?" Don went nose to trunk with the elephant and gave him his sternest glare. To his credit, and that of the entire race of pachyderms, Jumbo appeared totally unfazed.

You had to hand it to Jumbo. He played all his cards close to his chest. He continued to stare off in two different directions with his unblinking, wonky eyes. Don grinned a little_. So, okay, he was nuts. Know what? He no longer cared. _He rested his chin on top of Jumbo's worn head and really hoped Colby would never see this.

"Hey, bro," Charlie loomed out of the shadows. "I thought you wanted to join the party? Dad's started to wonder where you are. He's saved you at least a hundred pound steak, so I really hope you're hungry."

"He has, huh?" Don shook himself out of his reverie, and hurriedly stuffed poor old Jumbo back underneath the recliner. It was time to curtail the reflection and go and do the social thing. "Dad's on a one man mission to fatten me up again."

"With good reason - " Charlie started to say. He paused, and stared a little harder. "Tell me, Don, am I _really_ seeing that ratty old elephant, lurking underneath your recliner?"

"No, you're not." Don scowled, and got quick smart to his feet. Or, as quick smart as he could possibly manage. "He's only an optical illusion. And, believe me, Charlie, I should know."

"Yeah, well, you'd better come and show your face pretty soon," Charlie was grinning openly now. "And I promise not to mention the elephant thing or dad may start to reach for the thermometer. He already invited the Waldo's along, so you don't want to give him an excuse. The next thing you know, he'll have roped the doc into giving you a quick examination. And there's no point glaring at me, brother dearest. You know how dad gets."

_Yeah, Don smiled with wry resignation. He knew,_ _and he wouldn't change a thing._

Well, okay, maybe one or two small things. Nothing was ever one hundred per cent perfect. _Hey – now that he'd come to think of it, perhaps he could get dad to sell the Volvo._ He smiled to himself and shook his head – _or then again, maybe not_. It was hard to imagine Alan driving anything else – that car was so . . . it was _so_ dad. Sturdy and always reliable - robust and disregarding of fashion. The more Don thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. _Sell the Volvo?_ Now that _would_ be a miracle.

_Wardrobes might turn into elephants and pigs would definitely fly._

* * *

Moonlight shone in through the open window, and slanted across the man in the bed. Alan paused for a moment, just listening. Just listening to the slightly rapid breaths. Still a little too fast, still a little too raspy. But better – _oh, so much better. _His older son merely sounded like a man asleep. No longer like a man on his last legs.

And talking of older – he was kinda done-in himself. The last few weeks had taken it out of him. Don getting injured and then being so sick – one of the things he dreaded most had come about. But they'd survived – _just barely_ – by the skin of their teeth. All of them had made it through intact. At long last, Don was recovering, and the end of the tunnel was in sight.

Alan moved quietly into the bedroom. He'd spent so many nights in here lately. Just sitting and watching and listening, as the silent hours ticked by. Too wired-up and vigilant to sleep himself, but too fearful to leave the room. He'd sensed this building for such a long time now. Like the threat of a storm on the horizon. Whenever Don didn't turn up when he'd promised, and every single time the phone rang. There'd been something - a certain look on Don's face. The exhaustion, the terseness, the drinking. The little signs he was concealing yet another headache to be read by anyone in the know.

Alan sighed, and sat down in the bedside chair. By now, it was force of habit. Don would be mortified to discover him here, but what the heck, he would never know. In a couple more weeks this would be over. _Please God - _Alan was cautiously optimistic. Don was far from being physically well just yet, but at long last, the signs were looking good. He'd enjoyed himself at the cookout tonight – when he'd eventually decided to join them. And, so what, if he hadn't managed a quarter of his steak?

_It was better than nothing at all._

Alan had been so sure he would lose him _Just like he had lost his mother._ For what seemed like months - _like years, now_ - he'd been carrying a secret terror locked inside.

The terror had almost materialised. It had nearly swallowed them whole. With a little whim and a twist of fate, his beloved son might have been gone. Alan leaned across to the bed and pulled the sheet back gently. He took the moth-eaten elephant from under his arm and tucked him in, on the pillow, next to Don. He was immediately transported back in time. To a distant world of long hot summers. Life had seemed so much more innocent, but the days had vanished too quickly by. It had all been swept aside in the blink of an eye, one moment there, the next moment gone. His family had been together under one roof, cradled beneath the beams of the old craftsman. _Had it really been so straightforward then? _Sometimes, he wished it had gone on forever.

_Forever. He wished he could have kept them safe, secure, and eternally within arms reach. To whisper some words and wave a magic wand – to make things exactly as he wanted them. _

But, of course, there was no way of reversing time. Alan shook his head at his whimsy. No way of turning the clock back, _whatever Larry Fleinhardt had to say. _

_So, okay, this was a crazy indulgence._ So what, he was a sad old man. But when he looked at Donnie, asleep with Jumbo like this, he could pretend his son was still a little boy. A little boy – safe with his toy elephant. Protected from the harshness of reality. For a few, short hours in the still of the night, Alan could watch over him again.

For a while – it was only for a little while. And he knew it was really an illusion. When the sun rose and the morning came, Don would be his own man once more.

"Oh, Donnie," Alan sighed and placed his hand on Don's dark head. He allowed a second or two to let it linger. "Did I ever tell you how much I love you? Did I mention how proud I am of you, my son – or how proud your mother would be?"

There was no answer, of course. He didn't expect one. Don was too doped-up on his meds. Antibiotics and painkillers - they made a pretty potent cocktail. And the clandestine bottle of beer couldn't have helped much – Alan chuckled softly. But then again – _he _didn't know about that one. _Or,_ _at least, he didn't know in theory._ In reality, hardly anything got by him. There wasn't much the old man missed.

Like the sudden relaxation of tension, for instance, since Don had gone out to the garage. Or, the way the whole atmosphere had lightened, along with the smile on Charlie's face. And for the first time - _in what seemed like forever_ - something resembling contentment had finally appeared in Don's eyes.

Alan took one last look and got to his feet. Fairly soon, life would be back to normal. It was time to start trusting the gods once more, and believing in the kindness of fate. _Time to start sleeping in his own bed again,_ Alan rubbed his back ruefully. Now that _really_ was something to look forward to – he was getting too old for all this. He smoothed the sheet over Jumbo and his slumbering son, and headed towards the door.

The night wind blew in softly through the window and lifted the flimsy curtain. Alan paused on the threshold and the cool valley breeze caressed his face. For a moment, he fancied he saw her there, outlined in the silvery moonlight. Just as beautiful, just as loving. For a moment, he thought she blew him a kiss.

_Margaret._ Alan knew then, she'd been watching him, throughout his silent vigil. His heart swelled with bittersweet happiness. Just like he knew she'd been watching over Don.

"Thank you, Margaret," he said.

THE END


End file.
